


Finish Line

by supergreak



Category: Glee, NASCAR RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Racing, Coming Out, Coming of Age, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Romance, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supergreak/pseuds/supergreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his wife's death, Burt takes a job as Dale Jr.'s pit chief.   This is a story of growing up NASCAR, unforeseen opportunities, the politics of racing, making friends and making out, food tour of America, the national anthem (twice), finding love, and the true spirit of NASCAR.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Minor pairings listed at the end.

In case you need a little soundtrack to go along... 

[Finish Line](http://8tracks.com/supergreak/finish-line) from [supergreak](http://8tracks.com/supergreak) on [8tracks Radio](http://8tracks.com).


	2. Chapter 2

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=2mhde2s)

 

**The Hill Behind Freedom Elementary, 1999**

That smarmy private school kid's cart was so obviously built by grown-ups that Santana felt like spitting nails.  But the one they'd built was still faster.  She just _knew_ it.

Still, when he came over to trash-talk her car, ooh, she just wanted to punch him, _so_ bad.

"Oh, how _quaint!_   Is this _acrylic paint?_   And what is that steering wheel even _made_ of?" 

She took a step forward, and Noah held her back.  "Not worth it."

She just glared and double checked the mismatched bolts holding the wheels on their cart once more before pushing it over to the starter line.  Noah put on his helmet, Britt stuck the last of the stickers on the car, and then the race was starting.

Team P.P.L. (pronounced People or Purple, depending on Britt's mood) then proceeded to win the race by a good 5-foot gap, because they were just that awesome.  And fancy cars don't keep Fancy-Pants Private School from steering off track and flipping into the bushes.

So there.

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=n2ogib)

 

On their way from lunch to the matinee of _The Lion King_ , they drove up to Columbus for his wife’s birthday. They lost Kurt halfway across the parking lot, and Burt backtracked three cars to see his son running a hand delicately up a cherry-red hood.

“It’s gorgeous, Daddy.”  Burt saw his son’s eyes light up when he turned. “What’s the model?”

Usually that look was reserved for fancy little boots Burt bought in the girl’s department, or a trip to the scrap bin in the fabric section of Wal-Mart that usually resulted in Kurt’s tiny fingers flying and snipping and measuring until his G.I. Joe was sharply attired in tiny, tiny jackets and dress shirts and ties and trousers.  Last week, Elizabeth taught Kurt how to deconstruct the camouflage uniform to make a paper pattern.  Joe simply _had_ to have a tiny tuxedo out of the scraps she’d made Kurt’s out of, so they could match.

“That's a 1960 Thunderbird, kiddo.  300 horse V-8 came standard, and this one's got manual trans."

Kurt nodded, like he understood and had _listened_ all those times he sat in the shop listening to Burt ramble on.  Or at least, he was pretending to understand, which meant almost as much.  “The lines are really sleek, dad.  But is she fast?”

Burt grinned.  He could handle _this_.  He told Kurt all about the car as they walked to the theater, grinning like an idiot the whole time while Liz chuckled at him behind Kurt’s head.  She would rag him later on for getting so excited, but Kurt had zero interest for football or baseball or camping or hunting or anything that Burt knew _anything_ about, and it was hard, getting to know your son and spending time together when Kurt thought all of his father’s interests were _so boring, Daddy_. 

There was no way this would replace the musicals and sewing and dress-up, but it was _something_.  Maybe, Burt wondered during _The Circle of Life_ , eventually, Burt and Kurt would be close like Kurt was with his mom.  Give it a few years, and they could be like, Starsky and Probably-Gay Hutch, bonding over fast cars.  Satisfied with his conclusions, he settled back in his seat to enjoy the rest of the musical.

And then, there wasn't time. 

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=ind0yt)

 

**Ohio State Fair, 2002**

San pulled her head from under the hood.  "As good as it's gonna get, Noah."

Brittany stuck a helmet on his head, buckling it under his chin and pecking him on the lips.  Fast as he could, Noah wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand, staring at her aghast.  "What was _that_ for?"

"For luck, _duh._   They did it in Star Wars, and San's gonna give you one, too."

"No she's not!"

"No, I'm not!" 

They protested in unison, but Britt still stuck out her lower lip and looked at Santana with her big eyes.  "Don't you want him to have luck?"

"He doesn't need luck."  She said and crossed her arms.  "He's got skill.  And boys are gross."

"The feeling's mutual."  Noah muttered as the girls stared at each other.

"Fine."  Santana sighed, stepping over to grab his helmet and kiss his cheek.  "There you go.  time to win this thing."  She bent back down as he buckled in.  "And Puckerman?  If you kill my daddy's lawnmower..."

"You'll castrate me yourself, I know."  Noah rolled his eyes.

She matted him on the head.  "Glad you understand."

(Brittany tried to kiss him again, when he showed her the trophy and prize money.  He didn't let her.  He did let her spend some of her share of the prize money to treat them all to ice cream, though, because that wasn't gonna get him killed by San, or give him cooties.)

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=n2ogib)

 

It was two months later, and he was pretty much just going through the motions of life.  Without Liz, it was all he could do to get Kurt to school, buy milk and coffee, and once the funeral food ran out, frozen pizza, burritos, and orange chicken.  He knew how to cook spaghetti and open a can of soup and that was the extent of his abilities.

He went to work even though the guys said they'd cover, they didn't mind, because he _had_ to get out of the house.  Everything there was a reminder, and he was a man.  Men didn't do emotions, or crying over favorite shirts or perfumes.  Disassembling engines? That was something men did.  And it was hard, physical work, work that meant he didn't have to think.  Kurt- well, Kurt was tough.  Kurt was holding it together for the both of them, walking to the shop after school and doing his homework in the office, teaching himself to make pancakes and cornbread from Elizabeth's checkered cookbook, getting himself ready for school without prompting.  And if he was wearing out the videocassette for _The Sound of Music_ , well, that was only natural. 

He heard a truck pull in- Chevy, old tires.  He rolled out from under the Impala he was inspecting and said to the driver, "There's something wrong with your timing belt."

The kid looked up sharply.  "Really?  'Cause it's been driving funny, and my pit chief looked it over and swore it was fine."

He tried not to scoff _too_ loudly- a customer was a customer, after all.  "Well, then I'd say your _pit chief_ is too used to shiny new stockcars.  Or is it Indycar?"  Burt grabbed a rag to wipe his hands off.  "Want me to take a look?" 

The kid waved his hand.  "Have at it."

It took him all of a minute to spot the problem, and within ten it was fixed.  It was a common enough model, they had the part in stock.  He wandered over to the register where the kid sat on the barely-comfortable customer's bench, hiding one of Kurt's Narnia books in a back copy of _Car and Driver_.  It would have worked better if the magazine wasn't upside down.  Burt cleared his throat. 

"She's good to go." 

The kid jumped and blushed, dropping the book on the bench.  "Great, thanks."  He handed over an Amex card.  R. DALE EARNHART, JR.  Burt snorted and flipped it over.  God bless Costco for putting photo IDs on their credit cards, otherwise, he'd probably have said something stupid. 

Junior signed the receipt and put his hat back on, smiling.  "Listen, Mr. Hummel-"  He said, shaking Burt's hand.

"It's Burt."

"Only if you call me Dale.   Here's the deal- I'd like to offer you a job.  You've got a way with cars that my crew chief's missing, and we actually get along.  It's hard work, but it pays well, and it's fun.  Lots of travel. What do you think?"  He looked at Burt expectantly, hands in pockets.

Burt looked at the kid, and he sighed.  "Honestly, Dale, I'm flattered.  But I can’t just pack up and go.”  With a glance at the back office, he shrugged.  “I’ve got a kid.  My wife, she’s gone now- cancer, in August.  So I can’t just leave.”

Junior laughed.  “You can bring him with you, sir.  I was pretty much raised NASCAR.  RV-it during the season, if you need to, and you can settle near the test garages during the off-season.”

Burt looked at the earnest face, and thought. 

He thought about how much work it would be to homeschool Kurt while travelling around the country.

And then he thought about how Kurt actually _liked_ cars, most of the time.

He thought about the look on Kurt’s face when he walked into the shop after school, new shirt ruined from the juice boxes ‘accidentally’ squirted in his direction, eyes dry but still red, like his little boy was putting on a brave face for Dad.

How the bruise on his arm grew purple and green and he still wouldn’t snitch because _that’ll just make it worse, Dad!_   How it wasn’t the first time since the school year started, or even the tenth.

He thought about selling that ghost-filled home and nodded, mostly to himself, as he stepped forward.  “I’m in.”

Junior nodded earnestly, shaking his hand.  “Glad to have you on board.”

 

 

They got a house in town, with an open invitation for Kurt to visit whenever he wanted, to play on the property or use the dirt track. But Burt was working full-time at the development garage, and he couldn't stop to drive Kurt around town after his schoolwork was done for the day. So, now they were in the bike department of Costco.

"But it's _ugly_ , Dad!" Kurt whined. "Why can't I get the purple one?"

"Because that's-" He bit back _a girl's bike_ , although it was, in favor of an easier truth. "cheaply made. It's some no-name brand with cheap hardware and crappy tires and less metal than a bike should have." Kurt's old bike, back in Ohio, was from the girl's department, true, and had those little streamers off the handles and everything. But Kurt was bigger now, and rode further and harder. There wasn't really that much selection, here.  He saw some girl’s mountain bikes at Big Five across the street, but they were three times as expensive as the one at Costco.

"But the one you want is _neon green_ , Daddy, I can't ride around in town on that! It's an eyesore!"

Burt had to agree, there.  He kind of needed sunglasses after staring at it so long.

He knelt down and put a hand on Kurt's shoulder.  "Okay, kiddo, we'll make a deal. You get this bike- decent tread on the tires, sturdy frame, comfortable seat, going to last you for years- without complaining, and we'll go right over to Michaels or Wal-Mart or wherever. Get some of that fancy colored duct-tape to cover the body, pick up whatever accessories it needs to make it less hideous, okay? As long as you don't break the bank, I'll leave the color coordination up to you. You know I don't know anything about that stuff."

Kurt's face lit up. "Really?"

Burt nodded. Hell, he'd rather have the kid safe on a sparkly hand-decorated bike than throwing a fit or getting hurt, so this was the best option.

Kurt tackled him in a hug. "Thank you, thank you!"

Burt cleared his throat. "Okay, then. You want to ride it to the front of the store? I'll turn a blind eye on the helmet law, just this once."

Kurt cheered and hung his little leather backpack on the bike handles, carefully pedalling it to the front of the store. Burt picked up a new helmet for Kurt- he'd outgrown his old one- and got the cashier to cut all the tags off while Kurt stood in line for pizza. It was a dark gray skater-boy helmet, not a bike helmet, but it was better protection. And Kurt could use the duct tape or whatever on it, too.

Kurt stared in awe at the rack of tape in Michaels, before picking up a roll of light pink. Okay, this was supposed to be a safer bike, not one that would get him beat up.  And even though _he'd_ heard Elizabeth's rant seventeen times about how pink was originally a color for little boys, that didn't mean the kids around town were that smart about nineteenth-century history.

He used Kurt's language to argue against him. "How about this one, Kurt?" He poked at a shimmery blue with sparkles and little swirls of other shades. "The blue goes better with your coloring, you took that quiz in that one magazine, right?  And didn't you say that blue is classic, but pink goes in and out? And the sparkly bits will be like thousands of little reflectors. Safer for riding on those roads that aren't lit so well."

Kurt turned and gave him an appraising look. Finding something he approved of, he shrugged and said, "Good idea, dad," and picked up the three rolls of tape. "Now, I need a light, reflectors, and handlebar covers.  And don't even _think_ about making them camo."

 

 

Kurt was tearing through the fourth-grade material at lightning speed. Kurt had always been an _okay_ student, but nothing spectacular.

"Doesn't make sense." He said to the homeschooling consultant/counselor the state board assigned them. "He's pretty much teachin' himself, out of books, asking questions when he gets stuck. But it's not like me and Dale are exactly the world's best teachers."

Ms. Pillsbury said. "Well, did Kurt have any...problems, in public school?"

"He's a good kid, Ms. P-"

She laughed. "I know. But was he bullied?"

Burt said. "Yeah. Yes, he was. Pretty badly. He always tried to hide it, you know how kids are, but...yeah."

"That explains it, then. Harassment during class can make it hard for a child to pay attention, and even recess and lunchtime bullying can make it difficult to comprehend information. Additionally, bullies have always liked to steal or destroy or graffiti homework and classwork of their victims, so Kurt might've been re-doing assignments at the last minute after his were ruined. But now that he's learning in a safe space, he can live up to his potential. I suspect he's just making up for lost time, now, and the learning curve will level out in a few years."

He stopped freaking out after that, and just let Kurt set his own pace.  Within reason.  Burt wasn't about to let him replace his report on the Declaration of Independence with a thesis on the History of the American Musical, no matter how many times Kurt asked.

 

 

Kurt looked up from the stopwatch once Junior got out of the car. "Three minutes, nine seconds." He scrawled the number on the clipboard.

The kid scrawled in his notebook. "The mean of the twelve trials was three minutes, eleven seconds. Which is five seconds less than the average before you adjusted the air pressure on the tires, and seven seconds less than the previous adjustment."

"Perfect. We'll use that level on race day. Now, of all the times, what was the mode?"

Kurt tilted his head up, and rolled his eyes. "Three-twelve, _Dad_."

"And the median?"

"Three-ten. Anything else?"

"Yeah, there's five bucks in it for you, if you mow the lawn."

Kurt turned and surveyed the expanse of grass. It was quite a large lawn, and even with all the cars, bikes, go-carts, and the automotive graveyard around the property, Uncle Dale _still_ didn’t have a riding mower. "Fifteen, and I get ice cream when I'm done."

"Deal."

 

**2001**

The press cleared out, the team cleared out, all the well-meaning friends and relatives and neighbors left their casseroles and hugs and tears.  Dale took care of what he had to and made sure everyone else could count on him and then it was the still heat of the summer night, crickets chirping up a storm.  But sleep refused to come.  He looked at his nightstand- saw a picture.  Rolled over- there was Dad's old hat.  On his back, he could see the last carefully formed circle of the textured ceiling, right over his head.  He tried to close his eyes, get some relief, but then the crash was happening again, and again, over and over behind his eyelids. 

He rolled out of bed, swearing and scrounging for a pair of jeans off the floor and making for the door and then he was on a motorcycle, rounding the corners of the graveyard by the moonlight, slipping on the dirt and barely seeing through foggy eyes.  And then he saw a black car and turned too sharply and spun out, skidding on his bare side.  He couldn't even bring himself to get up, just get his leg out from under the bike (ouch) and roll over onto his ass and lean his back against the seat as he stared at the wreckage of a navy blue car, not even the same model.

He let his head fall back, staring at the stars.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid._  

There were crickets, and there was wind through the trees.  There was a wolf somewhere in the distance, and there was that annoying sound that Kurt's bike made in third gear.

Wait.

What?

He pushed up off the ground to twist and look behind him, and sure enough, there was the light of Kurt's headlamp bouncing up and down the path.  The kid saw him and hopped off the bike.  Dale plopped back down on the ground right as Kurt dropped a helmet in his lap.  "You're going to be stupid and hypocritical and ride alone at night, at least wear the stupid helmet.  Sorry, we've maxed out our funeral quota for the year." 

Dale looked up at those _sternworriedfond_ eyes and sighed.  He didn't even know what to say.  He closed his eyes with a deep, ragged breath.  And then he felt Kurt's head against his shoulder, hip against his, and he just- he just broke.

"I just- I just _can't_ any longer, kiddo, every single _fucking_ thing reminds me of him, and I can't sleep and it's just too _hard_."  He squeezed the hand on his knee.  "Just- it has to get easier, right?  It can't be this freaking raw _forever,_ right?"

Kurt squeezed back.  "No, not forever."  He said, soft and sad.  "I won't lie, it still hurts.  But you'll scab, and sometimes you can go a whole day without it hurting, and then you can remember the good things without- without getting all weepy.  Chocolate helps.  And driving fast, and keeping busy.  Finding a new project to lose yourself in.  But, yeah.  Pretty much sucks."

Junior rubbed his eyes because the night blooming deathweed was making them water.  "It's not _fair."_

"I know."

When it was time to go in, Kurt handed him a handkerchief and thankfully, never mentioned it. 

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=ind0yt)

 

Kurt spent most races sprawled on a blanket on the cool floor of the main garage, iced tea and snacks at his side as he worked through Mavis Beacon and history workbooks and math games on his computer. (which _only_ had educational games on it, and the wireless card disabled until he was older.  Totally not fair.)  There was a TV in the corner to watch the race updates, but NASCAR was really only interesting if you got to _do_ something, and it took _hours,_ and Kurt was too small to help in the pits.  Stupid child labor laws.  So it was sitting in the commentary booth with that nice Mr. Car Trip and having to _behave_ for forever many hours, or staying _safe in the garage, Kurt._   He almost always opted for the latter these days- he could _usually_ finish his schoolwork by lap 50, and spend the rest of the race re-designing the ugly uniforms (which were _all_ of the uniforms) and watching _The Wizard of Oz_ , singing along.

Weekends were pretty much busy-busy-busy until the race started, and then it was sheer and utter boredom, and then busy-busy-busy all over again.    Dad felt bad for leaving him alone (I _really_ don’t mind, Dad, it’s better than the excruciating pain seeing the fashion of the drivers- or worse, the _fans-_ would put me through, and it’s better I retain some sense of hearing for the rest of my life) so they were always doing fun things on the off days.  Things he _knew_ Dad didn’t enjoy, like stopping at a Moonlight Amphitheater in some no-name town for a local performance of _The Music Man,_ letting him browse for hours in a dusty shop of old ( _well loved, Dad!)_ designer pieces, taking a side trip to a fashion museum (Dad brought a book and left his watch off.  Kurt read _every caption_ ).  Plus, as long as he got his homework done Uncle Dale would let him take the go-carts around the Racecar Graveyard as fast as he wanted.  (The only rule was, if he wrecked one, he had to put it back together himself, and work off the cost of parts with hours in the shop.  Since he wanted his hours in the shop to add to his Fashion Fund, he never drove _too_ recklessly.Driving fast was fun, but not more important than fashion.)

In fifth grade, he got _Math for the Real World_ , which had music _and_ cars and music _about_ cars, so Kurt impressed his dad with his studiousness by playing a video game for hours.  They both thought they got the better side of the deal.  Dad thought it looked fun, too.  On the ride to Talladega, though, Dad totally regretted the purchase, because Kurt sang along with _Are We There Yet?_   at the top of his lungs.  Every time it repeated. 

By sixth grade, he had ten hours a week on the garage schedule, off season.  Well, in post-its over the schedule, because he was still getting paid way, way, under the table.  That funded his first designer piece: vintage McQueen. 

“Oh, I don’t know what to get!”  He worried his lower lip, pacing back and forth in the boutique.  There were so many wonderful pieces!

“Can I make a suggestion?”

Kurt rolled his eyes.  “Since when do _you_ have an opinion on fashion, Dad?”

“I may not know fashion, kiddo, but I know saving money.  And that shirt you’re holding won’t fit you in a year, the rate you’re shooting up.  But if you get this scarf, or that funny-looking hat, those’ll still fit you in five, ten years.  I know you’ll take good care of them, and _vintage_ just means it’s so old it’s never going out of style, right?”

Kurt stopped his pacing, turned on a heel, and nodded decisively.  “You are completely correct.  Except not that scarf, it’s horrid.”  He turned his attention to a rack of coats, finding one that was just _perfect._   “Okay, this is too big, but it’s belted and  meant to be thigh-length, so the fact that it goes down to my knees won’t be a problem.  Especially if I wear it with boots.  I can adjust the belt as I grow, it’s classic black with a subtly classy design, and I need a new winter coat, anyway.  So, can I get it?”

Dad chuckled at him, but not in a mean way.  “It’s your four hundred dollars to blow on clothes, kid, get whatever you want.”

Kurt grinned and carefully took the hanger off the rack.  “Thank you, I will.”

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=ind0yt)

> They met at fat camp- three nerds amongst a group of overweight jocks and bullies and generally dumb kids.  Lauren Ashley, Davey, and Lucy Q. bonded instantly over Trek novels, Pokemon, Artemis Fowl, and the utter futility of the trust exercises they were supposed to be doing.  A counselor walked by while they were ~~debating~~ discussing _Star Wars_ during orientation; she conspicuously played episodes of _Doctor Who_ every morning right when their little trio was eating breakfast. 
> 
> They did an awful lot of running, that summer. 

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=n2ogib)

 

**2008, Dover International Speedway**

It was Joey Legano's first time at a Nationwide Series track, so he got there a day before the track was open for practice to get a feel for things. He walked out to the track and climbed the bleacher, walkie-talkie in hand to his crew chief. He spotted people on the track, halfway around, and jogged across the rows to investigate. A guy in jeans and a t-shirt drew on the track with sidewalk chalk while a skinny kid looked on. He clicked the 'talk' button. "Who's that drawing on the track?"

The chief laughed. "That's Denny Hamlin, son, with the Hummel kid. Looks like they're doing trig."

"Who's the Hummel kid?" Maybe this was one of the things they did to rookies, because nobody drew trig problems in the Camping World series.

“His dad is Junior’s crew chief.  Makes him the unofficial mascot, you know?  Half the teams have more-or-less adopted him."

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=ind0yt)

 

> Luce actually showed up to game night in an honest-to-God _cheerleading_ uniform. 
> 
> "Oh, my god, you traitor to the geek creed."  Lauren said, throwing a marshmallow at her head.  "Are you kidding me?"
> 
> Lucy grinned.  "Nope!  The coach is criminally insane, but the workouts are tough enough that I've had ice cream _every day_ this week and haven't gained a pound.  She apparently just switched from that school across town, Mc- Something, because they cut her budget and gave it to the Glee Club.  But she wins National Championships, and she made _everybody_ try out again.  Even the captain.  Who couldn't do a cartwheel and got booted from the squad.  It's awesome."
> 
> Dave looked at her intently.  "And no one's giving you trouble like last year?" 
> 
> Lucy Q smiled her _yes I do know know karate_ smile and said drolly,  "Well, I may have mentioned that I lost all that weight by joining a boxing gym.  And I may have endeared myself to the new cheer coach, who nobody wants to mess with.  So I think I'll be fine."
> 
> Lauren turned to him.  "What's up with you, homeschool?" 
> 
> Dave shrugged.  "Nothing much.  My cousin Brad- you met him that one time, remember?"  He looked up from setting up the board.
> 
> "Different last name, but started with K- something and ended with -ski, right?"  Lauren shuffled the cards and started to deal.
> 
> "That's the one.  Anyway, he's teaching me to drive and wants me to do the, well, it sounds like the kiddie league of NASCAR.  But he's willing to sponsor me, and Dad thinks I need more hobbies other than math, running, and game night, so he's kind of pushing me into racing.  I don't know, it might be fun.  It has to be more fun than the woodworking club Mom signed me up for last month."
> 
> Luce rolled her eyes.  "It is just _wrong_ that you count a school subject as hobby."  She said, rolling the dice.  "Two.  Darn."
> 
> Lauren raised an eyebrow.  "Says the girl with the chem kit in her bedroom?"
> 
> The other girl glared.  "Explosions are involved, it doesn't count."
> 
> "Yeah, well-"
> 
> Dave cleared his throat.  "Sorry to interrupt your fight, but- I suggest that it was Mrs. Peacock, in the kitchen, with the knife."
> 
> Lucy, one spot away from getting to the conservatory, grumbled and moved her piece.  "I'll show _you_ a knife in the kitchen."
> 
>  

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=n2ogib)

 

Keeping greasy hands away, Dad leaned over his shoulder.  “It fixable?”

Kurt looked down at the partially disassembled engine on the garage floor and shrugged.  “She was right.  There’s a colony of some kind of fungus, I don’t even know, all over.  It’s clogging everything up, but nothing’s damaged.”

“So, good cleaning and she can go?”

Kurt twirled the toothbrush between his fingers.  “Think so.”

“Okay.”  Dad said.  “Sorry for lending you out, but the rest of the crew’s busy, and-”

Kut chuckled, turning to grin up at his dad.  “I get it, Dad.  Team effort, all that.”

Burt clapped a hand on his shoulder.  “All right.  I’ll go stop him from panicking, then.”  He walked away, whistling Mellencamp.  Kurt dabbed on some more cleaner to resume his scrubbing.

Growing up around all the problems cars had, nothing really surprised him anymore, but still, fungus was a new one.  It was almost as funny as the baby mice in the tailpipe, last year at Richmond.  Funny things can happen between practice and qualifying, especially with the humidity down here in the South. 

He flicked one larger chunk off onto the floor as an official click-clacked through the garage, heels incongruent with the torn jeans and faded NASCAR t-shirt she wore.  She spoke furiously into a cell phone.  “What do you mean, they _cancelled?_   Strep?  The whole band?  Way to dispel those rumors, boys.  But strep doesn’t come on it a day!  They couldn’t have given us some warning? 

No, okay, the race starts in _three hours,_ and I don’t have anyone to sing the National Anthem!  What do you _want_ me to do?”

She got within five feet of Kurt and his engine, and Kurt looked up at her, taking in a deep breath.  “Icansingthenationalanthem.”

The lady stopped, pivoted back towards him, and said, “I’ll call you back, Clyde.”  She snapped her phone shut.  “What did you say, kid?”

Kurt steeled up his courage and repeated.  “I can sing the National Anthem.  I’m a singer.  Well, not professionally, but yes, I’m perfectly capable of singing _The Star Spangled Banner_.“

She looked at him, his grease-stained hands and styled hair and baby face.  “Who _are_ you, anyway?  Aren’t you a little young to be working here?”

Kurt froze, eyes wide.  “I- um-“

Uncle Dale walked up behind her, cup of Starbucks in his hand.  “He’s Burt Hummel’s kid, and he’s one of my best mechanics.”  He set the cup down.  “Don’t forget to eat something today, kiddo.”

The official glanced over and tilted her head to the side.  “Can he sing?”

Junior nodded, bobbing his head.  “Like an angel.  Does a mean _We are the Champions_ every time someone on the team wins, too.”

“Well, then, I’m stealing ‘one of your best mechanics’ to sing the National Anthem.  He’s not on Pit Road, right?”

“Nah, garage duty.  Too young.”

“Then we need him as soon as he’s done here for a sound check, then again an hour before the race.  Appropriately dressed."  And then it was all a blur until the race was about to start. 

 

Kurt paced the infield and tried to take a calming breath, muttering to himself and grateful for the track noise which prevented anyone from _hearing_ him and labelling him crazy.  “You can do this, Kurt.  The average NASCAR fan is more patriotic than the lovechild of George Washington and Betsy Ross, raised on apple pie and Sousa music by good old Uncle Sam. You could sing off-key like that country chick last month and they’d still love it, they love America that much.  It’s just the National Anthem, you’ve been singing this two races a week since you were eight.  Just focus on the music, Kurt.”  He took a sip of lukewarm water from his Hendrick Motorsports bottle and set it on the edge of the stage before stepping up.

An official handed him a mike. “Good luck, kid.”  He said, stepping back and to the side, adjusting huge noise-cancelling headphones over his ears.  Kurt noticed hats coming off in the stands and stepped forward onto the masking tape ‘X’.  

 _Start low enough, play it safe_ , he thought.  _Deep breath._

The official counted down on his fingers, which was good- Kurt couldn’t hear him at all over the noise of the crowd.

_"Oh, say, can you see..."_

He stared up at the bright lights and focused on singing each line, tying the melody together in his fullest voice.  (This was NASCAR, there was no holding back here.)  

He allowed himself a single, simple run, just a few notes, on _free_ , but mostly kept it simple, holding out the long notes strong and pure.  (He’d grown up trackside; he’d heard every possible method of over-embellishing the National Anthem)

_...and the home...of the...brave..._

He held out that final note as long as he could (even after the cheering started), which was quite a while.  The he brought his hand down (okay, a little embarrassed, that was a little too _Broadway_ , not _Race Day)_ and handed the mike off, grabbing his water before jogging across the infield.  He got to the pit (and got high-fives all along the way).  Kurt was back where he belonged, still grinning like a fool as the most famous words in auto racing echoed around the track.  

_Gentlemen!  Start!  Your!  Engines!!_

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Shannon Beiste had always started football camp with an endurance run, and her first year at Lima East was no different.  She'd applied at McKinley, as well, but between the glee coach getting arrested for marijuana possession _and_ child molestation and the principal having a mental breakdown, she doubted anyone had time to even flip through the new teacher applications yet.  And Lima East offered her a job- didn't pay as well as she wanted, but she still had other work to supplement, so she wasn't 'bout to starve or anything.

The thing about the endurance runs, is that more than athletic ability, they showed her character.  They showed her who cut in front of the other kids or tripped them (she'd keep an eye on Nelson), who whined, who quit, who pushed themselves so hard they threw up.  Some kids, out-of-shape but with drive, would reach their limit- and keep walking and jogging, instead of giving up.  Regardless of condition, most of the boys took their shirts off in the first half hour, it was so hot.  Mid July would do that.  Especially running a five-mile loop around midtown- close enough that the wimps could walk back to the school, far enough that the kids didn't know how far they were running, and wouldn't fake themselves by counting laps.  And they weren't stopping at one lap. 

She kept jogging along, middle of the pack, so she could watch as, one by one, they gave in.  Adams didn't surprise her; he had the shape for a lineman but not the cardio health for it.  With some training, he'd be good.  But Puckerman, now that was a surprise.  She'd pegged him as all attitude, but he'd kept going when even the upperclassmen were dropping like flies.  Somebody's azaleas were getting upchuck fertilizer from last year's quarterback.  Puckerman surprised her because didn't start with a burst of speed, and he was rail thin, even with the shirt on.  It didn't come off until most of the group was gone, and the only other kids were ahead of him.  He whipped off the soaked gray tee and tucked it into the waistband of his ragged gym shorts-probably fished from the lost and found.  That's when she saw the bruises.

His back was covered in them, stripes, like from a belt.  Some were older than others, and there was an imprint of a hand on his shoulder- smaller, like a woman's or a teenager's.  _Oh, no.  Damn._

End of the day, she'd assigned positions, made some seniors mad when they lost their spots (practice and challenge for it, lazybones!  'Till then, you're on JV!), and poured all the puddles of teenage-boy-shaped goo into their mother's cars.  Except...

"PUCKERMAN!” she bellowed.  “What do you think you're doing?!"  She jogged across the parking lot. 

The kid looked at her quizzically.  "...Walking...home?  Practice is done, right, Coach?"

Shannon shook her head.  "You're not supposed to have enough juice left at the end of practice to _walk home,_ kid, you're 'sposed to rattle like the last drop of Welch's is gone from the box."

He shrugged and kept on walking.  "I'd have to take three buses to get home, and it's faster just to walk."

Shannon heaved a sigh.  "Well, then, I guess I'll just have to walk with you, since teacher can't give students rides in private vehicles."  She waited until they were a block away from the school before asking.  "So, is it your mom or your dad?"

He didn't look back.  "I don't know what you're talking about, Coach."

She snorted.  "And I'm a size two."

"My dad walked."  Puckerman kicked at a loose chunk of concrete.  "Ma gets pissed when I ask for money."

Her stomach sank.  "Like...football camp?"

He nodded.  "Yeah, or last week, when Hannah outgrew her last pair of pants that actually fit her.  She can wear my old t-shirts, but if she shows up for third grade in dude pants, she'll get crucified.  Cutoffs are one thing, for the summer, but she didn't have any decent clothes for school.  I was going to take her shopping, but...that didn't go so well."

Coach Beiste didn't know what to do, her mind whirling a  hundred miles an hour.  "We've gotta get you out of there, kiddo.  I've got a guest room, if your sister doesn't mind crashing on the couch 'till I can clear out some space in the attic." 

He turned around and scowled at her, walking backwards.  "I don't need your charity, Coach."

"Ain't charity, kid.  It's the right thing to do.  You deserve a safe place to live, understand?  You're worth that.  And before you ask me to forget about it, I can't unsee what I saw.  I'd lose my job.  So you're getting out of there.  You have a friend to stay with while I sort the legal end, or do I need to call social services?"

He stopped dead in his tracks, glaring at her for another moment before wilting.  "Yeah, sure.  Britt's house has, like, four empty rooms, and they wouldn't mind.  Just let me get Hannah and some stuff before Mom gets home, and you can even _escort_ me there, it makes you happy."  He sighed.  "Just- we've got to hurry, 'cause she gets out in an hour, and if I'm still there when she gets home, she'll be _pissed."_

Shannon clapped him on the shoulder.  "You're a good kid, Puckerman."

 

 

The sister just shrugged and started packing, when Puckerman explained.  Shannon helped them lug their two-duffels and a box of possessions across town, where a blonde woman in a e=mc2 shirt greeted the kids with hugs and reassurances.  She shook Presumably Mrs. Pierce's hand and walked back to her car, mind on paperwork and football and calling her lawyer.  (Two days later, Mrs. Puckerman signed over custody without protest.  Shannon couldn't decide if she was more relieved or disappointed.)

 

 

A pair of cheerleaders cornered her the first day of school.  "We've been researching you, Coach."  One girl said, shutting the door firmly and leaning against it, arms crossed.

The other girl, a leggy blonde, perched on her desk.  "Yep!  Since you decided to _help_ our friend, it was the smart thing to do."

Shannon leaned back in her office chair.  It could only be good that Puckerman had friends who cared that much.  "And?  I pass?"

"Oh, yes, your credit score's fine, you've got no criminal record, your previous employers had only good things to say, the water cooler gossip around the NASCAR circuit is boring, but acceptable, and we heartily approve of the ally training you completed in college."  The brunette listed this all matter-of-factly, as if they hadn't just violated her privacy.  Not that she really minded.  Her private life was pretty boring. 

"What we want to know is, are you going to support his racing?"

She sat straight up .  "He races?"

"Go-carts, golf carts, lawnmowers, whatever we could afford, all over the state, since we were five.  And at the last race, Breadstix offered him a small sponsorship, but not enough to hire more crew.  And we'd need a bigger one, if we wanted to do Whelen All-American."

"He has a crew now?"  That was even more surprising.

She shook her head.  "Just us.  I build and repair, Britt designs- when there's a choice, of course, we both do tires during the races, sometimes Hannah- that's his sister- comes along to do gas, sometimes it's Brittany's dad.  He drives us to all the races, and we split his win money evenly."

Frankly, she was impressed.  She'd have to look the kids up in the old records, but they seemed to have an effective little enterprise going on.  "I'll tell you what, girls.  If the three of you keep up your grades, I'll come along as an extra crewperson to all the races.  We'll still have to stay pretty local, but I have some friends I can call for sponsorships, and every little bit helps." 

 

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It took forever and a half to find a school near Pocono that was proctoring the AP Euro exam, and he got a lot of weird looks from the locals- there was another homeschool kid in the room, but he had dreads and _Bible verse tattoos_ and apparently knew all the kids from the Christian Club.  Kurt was a) a complete stranger, b) a freshman to the sophomoric majority of the room and c) more fabulous than the rest of the room put together.  It was predetermined that _no one_ would talk to him on the break.  The looks of sheer envy when Uncle Dale picked him up on the way to qualifying, though, in the Nationwide car- _totally_ made up for it. 

(It wasn’t the actual Nationwide car, but the standard stockcar with the paint and stickers they used for commercials and promos.  A school full of immature homophobes didn’t need to know that.)

 

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The Bud Shoot-off was long over, and Kurt was nowhere to be found.  His denim blanket was in the back of the truck with his lunchbox, but his backpack was gone.  He wasn’t in the pit, or the garage, or up in the commentator’s booth.  He called Dale’s spotter on the radio. “Hey, man, you seen my kid anywhere?”

“I think I saw him and Kasey Kahne over by the Quaker State tent, oh, ‘bout twenty minutes ago.”

“Okay, so now you can find the acceleration, right?”

Kurt nodded as his pencil scratched out something in the notebook.  “Is this right?”  He held it up.

Kasey signed a t-shirt and looked up.  “Yep, but you’re missing the units.”

Burt walked up as Kurt was fixing his answer.  “There you are, kiddo!  We’ve been looking all over.”

Kurt shrugged.  “You were busy, and I mentioned getting stuck on chapter seven, so he was just helping me with physics, dad.”

Burt raised an eyebrow.  “He’s not bothering you, is he?”

Kasey laughed.  “Nah, man, Kurt’s cool.  And it wasn’t too long ago that I was in high school physics, myself.  I actually liked it, because it’s the science of driving fast, right?”

He turned to Kurt.  “You get it now?”

Kurt nodded, sticking his pencil into the spiral of the notebook and closing his text.  “Yep.  Thanks, Kasey.  See you next week?”

The young driver smiled.  “Looking forward to it.”

 

 

Danica signed on the dotted line with a smile for the PR photographer. 

“Congratulations, and welcome to the team.”  Junior shook her hand and shuffled her around, keeping up a steady stream of introductions and explanations as he showed her around the home of Junior Motorsports.  Once they got to the garage, he lowered his voice inexplicably.  “We’re putting you in the 7, at least for now,” he said.  They got down to the far end of the row, where a pair of seriously bedazzled boots were poking out from under the car.  

“Sup!” he said, loudly with a grin.

With a clang and a thump and a muffled curse, the boots rolled forward to reveal a teenage boy, ‘Kurt’ embroidered in glittery silver thread on his jumpsuit.

“Your dad would wash your mouth out with soap if he heard you talking like that.”   Junior crossed his arms, facial expression clearly aiming for ‘stern’ but landing firmly on ‘amused’.  

‘Kurt’ pushed himself up before dusting off his hands.  “LIke you’ve got a leg to stand on, Mr. 25-point-fine.”  He turned to Danica and shook her hand with a firm, if greasy, grip.  “It’s wonderful to finally have some estrogen around here.  Please tell me you enjoy shopping, salons, and/or musical theater.”

She laughed.  “I’ll tell you what, next time the team’s in a decently big city, we’ll do some shopping after the race.  Celebratory splurge or a consolation prize, either way.  I’m not much into theater, but we can get our nails done first.”

He grinned, eyes bright.  “Fabulous. Now, about your car...”

 

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Lauren excused herself from AP Euro and slipped into the bathroom to hit her speeddial.  "Lucy Q, what's with your SOS in the middle of school?  I'm missing a lecture on Charlemagne for this."  She'd had enough Crisis Calls _before_ Q'd finished in the Miss Teen USA (fourth); she didn't need any more now.

And from the sound of it, Luce was barely keeping it together.  "I screwed up, Zizes.  All of the contestants, there was a party on our night off, we just wanted to celebrate the Top Ten, you know?  But somebody spiked the punch, and there was this guy, and he was _really hot,_ and he had a _Mohawk_ and drove _racecars_ , and we _totally did it._ "  She was sobbing.

"He didn't- it wasn't-" Lauren saw red, and then Quinn laughed, bitterly. 

"Oh, no.  It was _perfectly_ consensual.  And it was _really good._   I got off, like, four times."

"Then what's the problem, Luce?  Losing your virginity is not the end of the world, you know?  And unless he's blackmailing you..."

Her friend snorted.  "Oh, no.  Worse.  We didn't use protection."

Lauren laughed.  "Oh, crap, you _did_ fuck up, didn't you?  Don't tell me-"

"Yep.  Missed my period, took a test, it was positive.  Double checked."

"Well, fuck."

"My sentiments exactly."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Adoption.  Dad, bless his evil little heart, wants to keep it quiet, and offered to send me to one of those boarding schools for pregnant chicks.  But you know what?  Anyone who's going to treat me differently over this wasn't really my friend in the first place, and it'll drive the knife a little harder into dear old Russel's side."

Lauren leaned against the stall wall.  "Good for you.  What's your cheer coach think?"

She snickered.  "Oh, she wants me leading the squad as long as it's medically sound.  She's all up on the diversity gig this year.  She even recruited that Unique chick to sing with Mercedes."

"Shut the front door."

" _Oh,_ yeah.  The glee coach is _furious,_ of course, because that's three singers gone to the cheerleaders, but honestly?  The perks are better here, and the hours are less ridiculous.  And St. James is a dick."

"Amen to that.  You told NASCAR dude yet?"

Lucy sighed.  "He, like myself, agrees that it was awesome sex but we should've used protection, and is equally unready to parent a child at this point in his life.  He's also all sorts of broke.  But he wants visitation rights, which I understand."

"So the only problem is, the committee."

Q took a deep breath.  "Help me formulate an argument that allowing me to retain my title is advantageous to the public image?  They're bewildered enough that I'm pro-life yet also support gay marriage.  They don't know who to market me to, and are pretty pissed at the judges, still. I doubt they could like me any _less_ at this point."  She snorted.  "Not likely.  So, can you help?"

"I will, _after school._   Stay cool, freakazoid."

"Don't let your brain explode, nerd."

"I love you, too."

"Yeah, yeah, jump off a cliff."

 

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**May 27, 2011**

They threw his eighteenth birthday party in one of the garages, after practice for Charlotte.  The gift cards, Wicked tickets (from Danica), new laptop (Dad), and cellphone (Uncle Dale) all made Kurt chatter and grin and thank them effusively, but the _best present ever_ was getting promoted to pit crew.  No longer, would he spend the races in the garage!  The letters from Hendrick Motorsports and JR's team, for Sprint and Nationwide, respectively, came in an envelope with 70SPF sunscreen.

"Figured you'd kill me if you got tan lines like the rest of us."  Burt shrugged at Kurt's bewildered expression.  "Welcome to the team, kiddo."

(Later, while he was doing DDR with some blonde girl, probably on somebody's pit crew, Junior and the big boss hauled him over. 

"We're not telling him,"  Junior said.  "But we've put in the paperwork for him to drive.  Just in case we need an extra driver, sometime.  Nobody else knows well he can drive, so he can be the ace up our sleeve.  That okay with you?"

He glanced over at the kids.  "Long as you don't tell him, okay? Don't want to get his hopes up."

"Understood."

 

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**February 14, 2012**

At first, he thought The Asshole would be good for Coach.  Somebody to court her, love her, make her feel all girly and shit.  She needed some of that.  After they eloped in Vegas, though, that's when she started lying.  And he was Noah Elijah Puckerman, he _knew_ lying, and they played a lot of poker on the road.  He knew all her tells.

Beiste's eyes got sadder, too.  Britt noticed it first, asking Puck if Eeyore Eyes were contagious.  He still wasn't going to say anything, though.  She was a grown woman, and Coach got all pissy when somebody'd imply she couldn't take care of herself. Between NASCAR and the high school athletics thing, she got enough shit that it was, and he _really_ didn't want to make it worse.

But when she tried the 'gym' excuse for her black eye, he called bullshit so fast.  He could tell, okay?  Having a safe place to live for high school didn't give him fucking amnesia, and he'd walked that walk.  Talked that talk.  "Yeah, Mr. Principal, I got the broken arm trying to do a 360 at the skate park.  It was _epic,_ man, you should've seen it.  Of course we've got food in the house!  I just forgot my lunch at home."  Whatever.  He could bullshit with the best of them, and this was bull.  Shit. 

Of course, he made the mistake of mentioning it to Santana before actually _talking_ to Coach, which is why they were staked out behind The Asshole's house with binoculars.  Coach got home from football practice, clearly worn out, and it isn't two minutes 'till there's shouting.  When his fist slams into her eye, right on top of the previous bruise, Coach just stands there shell-shocked for a second, hand to her face, before breathing deep and backing out of the house.

Puck looks over at Santana, who looks like she's about to cry.  He always forgets that for all of her trash-talk about Lima Heights Adjacent, she's just another middle-class kid from the suburbs.  "How- how can he _do_ that?  Why did she just stand there?  Coach is _strong_ , she could've beat the shit out of him!  What the fuck was that, Puckerman?"

He shrugged.  "He's an asshole, and people don't always fight back when it's someone you love."

"Well, screw that shit!  We've got to do something!  Imma go all Lima Heights on his scrawny ass!"

Puck snorted.  "What, and get arrested for assault?  If it'd been Coach, she could've claimed self-defense, but _we_ can't do anything.  Not without her."

Santana jumped up, dusted off her jeans, and said, "Well, then?" before storming off towards her car.

They found her in the auto shop classroom, grading projects through her tears.  She tried to brush them off, to say they were wrong, they didn't understand, that it was a problem for adults to deal with it. 

Finally, Puck'd had enough.  He sat on the hood of that semester's Project Car and crossed his arms.  "You know,"  he said softly.  "This one time, I had a football coach, and that coach told me that everybody deserved to have a safe place to live, that _I_ deserved a safe place to live.  You telling me she was wrong?"

Beiste inhaled shakily, and looked up at him through shiny eyes.  "No, she wasn't wrong."

"That coach, she also said it wasn't ever my fault that I got beat up on.  That still true?"

"Yeah, kid, it's still true."

Puck looked at her steadily.  "Also told me, when I did some screwed-up things with my love life, that I was special and valuable and deserved someone who loved me unconditionally, and that I shouldn't settle for somebody who's gonna trample on my heart, just 'cause the offer's on the table, right?"

She shook her head, smiling.  "Don't know how you can still quote back The Talk I gave you at seventeen, but yeah, that's still right.  And just 'cause you haven't found her- or him- yet, doesn't mean you should give up, Puckerman."

"Don't change the subject.  But you know, those things still apply, even though I'm grown up now?  Doesn't stop when I'm an adult, right?  You'd still say the same thing to me, or to Santana, or Brittany, or freaking Rick the Stick Nelson, because _everyone_ deserves those things, _am I right?"_

She just nodded, and Santana, at the door, looked close to tears, herself.

"Then why the _fuck_ haven't you left him, Coach?  You _know_ you deserve better than this."

She choked, a little, gaze on the floor.  "Guess I'd better, then.  Better practice what I preach, right?"  She laughed derisively.  "Never-  I just- I never thought it would be me."

Santana spoke up.  "Well, hop to.  Britt's got a spare room, and you're welcome to stay there until the legal stuff's sorted out." 

Coach snorted.  "Have to ask, how do the Pierces always manage to have spare rooms?  Seriously, the house doesn't look like they'd all fit."

Puck looked at Santana, who smirked.  They spoke in unison.  "It's bigger on the inside."

Their laughter broke the painful silence, and suddenly, the world wasn't so heavy on all their shoulders.

 

 

**PUCKERMAN SINGS AGAINST DOMESTIC VIOLENCE**

NASCAR driver Noah Puckerman, recently moved up to Sprint Cup, has something to say.  "Nobody should have to go through that."  He said, fixing his hat after the race on Saturday.  "And people need to know that getting pushed around, that doesn't make you weak or bad, and it isn't your fault, and it's okay to tell someone, to get out.  But some people, they don't have any place to go.  No way to get out.  So that's why we're raising money for Safe Horizons, so everybody's got another option." 

He and his spotter/car owner, Shannon Beiste, performed a charming cover of Taylor Swift's 'Mean' to raise awareness, and all proceeds from the sales of the song and music video are going to charity.  The video will also play during the first three Sprint Cup races- the league donated the commercial slots, one per race, free of charge. 

Domestic Violence Hotline:  1-800-799-SAFE 

 

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Last pre-season race, and he was doing good.  Well, better than the last two races, when he'd blown the engine before lap 50. 

Santana's voice came over the radio.  "In honor of our new gas-can-man, Sam Evans, I'd like to dedicate this song.  Welcome to the team, Sam!  _Guppy face...trouty mouth...is that how people's lips look, where you come from in the south..."_

She'd just finished the _horrible_ song, hopefully the kid wouldn't get his feeling hurt, when Keselowski slammed into the side of his car.  He felt another impact at his rear, and groaned.  Not _again!_

 

**February 27, 2012**

The kid- he couldn’t be more than fourteen- looked around the garage like he was lost or some shit.  “Yo, rookie!”  Puck called out, and the kid looked up at him.  “Quarter midget race was last week!”  The kid just shrugged and wandered out.  Probably a VIP who’d lost his tour guide.  Most kids got over the imitation-uniform stage by ten, but there were _always_ super fans.  And the obsessive fans were the ones who made sponsors happy, so Puck wasn’t about to go _report_ the kid or anything.

Five minutes later, he was talking strategy with the Phoenix guy and Santana.  His pit chief was his best friend, which was awesome except when she was chewing him out.  Also, putting on the guilt because _"_ Lord Tubbington, apparently, convinced Britt-Britt that you're finishing Top Ten today, so don't let her down, like the last ten times."

So he forgot all about the kid, and concentrated on winning.  Or at least, not losing _so_ bad.  He should've stayed in Nationwide.  The competition here was too tough.

 

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Uncle Dale was limping as he walked towards the car.  Just slightly, but Kurt knew enough about how people walked, from his fashion obsession, to know when steps were uneven.  He huddled together with Dad and Mr. Hendricks, talking in hushed tones.  He seemed to be shaking his head, but climbed in anyway, and Kurt just shrugged.  They were always worrying about something, and it usually wasn't anything _he_ had to do something about.

 

 

The race started fine, but it wasn't more than five laps in when Junior's voice was crackling on the radio.  "Burt, I should've listened to the doctor.  My leg is _killing_ me."

Burt snorted.  "You knew this would happen, trying to drive with a sprained knee.  You need ice on the next pit stop?"

There was silence for a second.  "I think Plan K, instead."

"You sure about this, Earnhart?"

"Yeah, I'm sure.  There's no way I'm gonna finish this race, it feels like this and we're not even on the tenth lap.  Put the kid on the radio."

Burt shook his head.  "Okay, then."  He took off the headset, walked over to his son, and handed him the radio.

Kurt held it up to his ear.  "Uncle Dale?  Uh-huh...you have _got_ to be kidding me.  Really?  Okay, got it."  He handed it back.  "I think I need a wardrobe change."  He said absently, before focusing on Burt.  "Dad.  _You_ knew about this, didn't you?"

Burt snorted.  "Yep.  Plan K, in case of emergency, we can change drivers during a pit stop.  He's hoping somebody crashes soon, so you can make the swap.  Spare firesuit's in the toolbox over there, you might want to get changed." 

He laughed as Kurt actually _skipped_ across the pit.  Yep, that was his kid, all right.

 

 

"It's lap 14 here at Daytona, and the yellow flag's already out.  Kenseth just spun out of control- do we have the replay?  _Ouch._   And that's thirteen- fourteen- _sixteen_ cars caught in the aftermath.  The eighty-eight's gonna get stuck...or not, Junior narrowly skates by!  And he's heading for the pits, taking advantage of the caution.  Puckerman, in the 69, gets the wave-around, while they are _still_ clearing the wreckage.  Nobody's hurt, but the cars are sure feeling the pain today.  Just another example of the problems drafting can cause, on these superspeedways.  Seventeen cars heading for the garage, trying to get fixed enough to finish the race, and- what's that on pit row?  Ladies and Gentlemen, Dale Earnhart Junior is _climbing out of his car._   He appears to be walking with a limp.  And someone else is climbing into the car.  Junior's found a relief pitcher, but who is it?  I didn't see anyone go onto the track!  Let's listen to the chatter."

The in-car camera showed the driver of the 88 pulling onto the track, grinning.  Junior's crew chief came on the radio.  "How's she driving, kid?"

"Like a dream.  Hey, Dad, I forgot the directions.  I just make a bunch of right turns, right?"  A high-pitched voice deadpanned, humor evident even through the static.

"Left turns, sport.  Lots of lefts.  Don't rush it- you're in eighth, and the race has barely started.  You've got plenty of time."

"Hummel Rule of Ten, I know, I know.  All right, let me focus, green flag's about to go."

"You got it.  See you in a few."

The announcer came back on.   "That, folks, is Kurt Hummel, driving the 88 for Junior today at Daytona, after Earnhart aggravated an old injury. More about that later- we're going to cover the wreck, the replacement, and the restart after these brief messages."

 

 

“Welcome to NASCAR on FOX.  There’s only twelve laps to go, and it’s been an exciting day at Daytona.”

“Yeah, Daryll, we had that huge wreck at lap 14, and that was a game-changer for a lot of teams.  The seventeen teams that wrecked are just started trickling back out onto the track in the last fifty laps or so, and that’s allowed a lot of these teams with less advantageous starting positions to move forward.  It’s really shaken things up.”

“Noah Puckerman, in the Hard Rock #69, spent the preseason in the garage by the end of every race, regardless of some excellent qualifying times.  Two weeks were engine trouble, and once there was just a huge wreck- he's had some rotten luck.  But he took advantage of the big caution, got four tires, and his pit crew set a track record for a four-tire change, moving them up to seventeenth.  Now he’s in fourteenth, and dancing with Joey Legano just ahead.”

“Yeah, his crew chief, Santana Lopez, looked pretty excited as he drove off pit road, and when the times popped up, we caught the rear tire girl doing a cartwheel.”

“Is there video?  Oh, _that’s_ going in the hall of fame.  Cartwheel to a triple roundoff, impressive.” 

“How do you _know_ that?”

“My daughter’s in gymnastics, shut up.  Back on track, with ten laps to go, let’s go over the other big shake-up of the day.  That big caution also let Junior, who re-sprained his ankle by driving today, trade drivers in the 88 with little Kurt Hummel.”

The other one laughed.  “Yeah, I  remember a few years where he’d spend the race up in here, curled up with a book ‘cause his dad wouldn’t let him help in the pits.  Now, at eighteen, he’s in second with nine laps to go, getting some of the fastest lap times today.  If he manages to get past Jimmy Johnson and win this thing, he’ll set a Sprint Cup record for youngest win.”

"Joey Logano's the current record holder, at nineteen years, one month, and four days, from his win at New Hampshire.  Oh, and look back there!  Joey Logano's falling behind, folks, and Puckerman comes around turn three just ahead."

"Even if Hummel wins, though, it won't count, even though he ran most of the laps, because Earnhart started the race.  This has happened before, and the win goes to whomever starts the race, no who finishes it.  So Joey's record is safe- today."

"It'll be a great start to a NASCAR career, though, and he's still got a couple of months until that nineteenth birthday.  And- he's coming around the corner, edging past Johnson- Hummel pulls ahead!  Sorry, Five-Time, we're rooting for the kid from the pits."

"Yeah, in case the folks at home didn't know, Kurt's been working as a tireman since his eighteenth birthday, working in the garage since it was legal, and hanging around since Burt Hummel, his father, got hired as Junior's crew chief in, what was it, 2002?"

"Yep.  So he's put in his time in every part of this sport- from singing the National Anthem, to working in the pits, to picking up trash after races- he's like a mascot.  Or an adopted kid."

"Raised by NASCAR: A True Story."

"Yeah, well, our true story's a carlength ahead of Johnson as he passes the white flag, then Hamlin, Biffle, and Keselowski rounding out the top five.  Puckerman breaks into ninth- this could be his very first Top-Ten Sprint cup finish!  Rounding turn four, it's the checkered flag, and it's Hummel!  Johnson!  Biffle and Hamlin, too close to call, closely followed by Keselowski!  Let's hear the reactions from Hummel's team."

"Um, what do I do now?  Do I, like, park or something?"

The announcer laughed.  "Now _that_ is what I call a rookie."

 

 

 

The last of the reporters wandered off, and Kurt ran a hand through his sweaty helmet hair.

"Hey, nice driving!"  Kurt turned and saw Jerk-with-Mohawk strolling over, firesuit zipped down to reveal a tight black t-shirt which clung to rather impressive muscles.

"Thank you?' Kurt wasn't sure if that was sarcasm.

The guy grinned.  "Yeah, well, just wail 'till next week at Phoenix.  It's a whole different game without the restrictor plates."

Kurt laughed.  "I don't even know if I'll be racing next week.  Even if Junior's out of commission, Hendrick's has got other, more experienced drivers."

Mohawk ducked his head.  "Yeah, um.  Sorryaboutthat.'  He said in a rush.  "You're just so-  so-"

Kurt crossed his arms, raised an eyebrow.  "Yes?"

"Young!"

Kurt sighed.  Not ef _feminate_ or _gay_ , that was a relief.  He didn't make a secret of his sexuality, practically everyone knew, but he didn't know how the press would treat him.  He only knew, it probably wouldn't be well.  Except those commenters who'd taught him what adverbs were, they'd known since he was twelve and casually mentioned a crush on Captain Jack Sparrow and they’d never treated him differently.  He took a breath to focus on the present before responding.  "I was going to say, if you're insulting my height, I doubt you've a centimeter on me, even counting hair."

"Yeah, well, it's mostly your face.  Doesn't look 18 yet.  If you bottle that, you'd make a fortune from all the little old grannies wanting to look young."

Kurt laughed.  "Healthy living.  And my moisturizing routine is frankly insane.  But I doubt you're interested."

Mohawk looked like he was thinking about it, head tilted to one side, before shaking it.  "Nah, I'm too lazy.  'Sides, chicks dig the rugged look."  He posed, stroking an invisible beard.

Kurt smirked.  "I'm afraid I wouldn't know."

"Yeah, no one can tell what girls think ab-  oh.  Oh!"  His eyes went wide, questioning.  Kurt nodded minutely, and Mohawk waggled his eyebrows.  " _Really_?  Wow.  Awesome.  Got a boyfriend?  Eye on anyone hot?"

Kurt laughed.  "Unlikely.  In _this_ sport?  Painfully straight dreamboats, all around.  And you really didn't know?"

Mohawk gestured at him.  "Not like you ping much gaydar in a firesuit and gross hair.  And I try not to assume things, right, 'cause 'Tana says that's rude.  Seriously, we'll be walking, I'll hit on somebody, and she'll be _'Not every hot girl likes men, Puck, and even if they were, they' wouldn't want to date_ you. _'_ and _'Coming out doesn't mean I have to wear flannel or a flattop, Puckerman, or like the Indigo Girls'._ "  He affected an accented, feminine voice before rolling his eyes. _"_ Which is B.S., because Britt took her to see the Girls last year and she _loved_ it."

Kurt looked at Mohawk appraisingly.  "Hmm, Puck, that makes you Noah Puckerman?"

"The one and only!"  He did a little bow.

Kurt smiled, deciding to forgive the stupid comments of before, because he'd heard about Puckerman's habit of thinking without speaking, and, well.  "I'm friends with Britt, and through her, Santana.  Wheel persons have to unite, you know.  We danced Beyonce in between pit stops, last year, in a couple of Nationwide races where our pit positions lines up nicely." You couldn't stay mad at someone Brittany liked, not for long.  She'd sic Lord Tubbington on him. 

Puck slung an arm around his shoulders and steered him towards the garage.  "Dude, that was  _you?_   How have we not hung out before?"

"According to Brittany, you were always too busy hitting on the Sprint Girls to socialize with your minions."

"Well, no longer.  I have the feeling that you and I?  Are going to be good friends.  Starting with you treating me to Victory Pizza out of those winnings."

Kurt shrugged the arm off, waving to Dad.  "I'll only treat you to pizza if you take a shower first.  You _reek,_ and I'm almost as bad.  So, go, take care of your business, clean up.  Meet me at the Hendricks booth, say, in two hours?  Because _I'm_ not going _anywhere_ until I get clean clothes and do _something_ with my hair."  He sighed, already plotting the quickest way to style it wet that would look decent, because he wouldn't have much time. 

Puck shook his hand, once, firmly, before sauntering off, waving over his shoulder.  "See you then, hot shot."

Kurt waved back, and then Dad was pulling him into the mob.

"Great work, kid!"

"Way to represent!"

The rest of the team- Mark Martin, Jeff Gordon and Jimmy Johnson- were clapping him on the back, bro-hugging, shaking his hand. "Another win for Hendricks Motorsports!  When the rest of us fell down on the job, the tireboy pulls it off!"  

"That's what I call teamwork!"

Uncle Dale picked him up and spun him around.  "Thanks, kiddo.  And not just for the win,” he said quietly, stepping away from the big group.

He raised an eyebrow.  "You're giving me a cut of the prize money.  I'm going out to dinner."

The older driver looked at him intently.  "Kurt, you just won me a NASCAR race.  You can ask for bigger things than dinner allowance."

He thought about it.  The prize money, well, the bulk of it, that usually went to re-investment and paying the bills.  And Junior couldn't give him a spot in the next race- that was up to Mr. Hendricks.  But...  "Okay, theoretically, if I ever met someone-"

"You meet people all the time!"  At Kurt's raised eyebrow, he coughed.  "Oh.  That kind of someone."

"Yes, _that_ kind of someone.  If, in such a rhetorical world, if I might want my father to be scarce from our shared trailer for a night, could I count on you for distractions?  Invite him over, play some cards, drink some beer, eat all the food he shouldn't, and keep him away?"

"You got someone in mind?"  Oh, no, not the Papa Bear Glare.

"No, just- I might have an opportunity.  Someday."  Kurt crossed his arms.  "I _am_ eighteen, Uncle Dale, I'm allowed to look for a boyfriend."

He sighed.  "And your dad's given you, the- the talk, right?  I don't need to-"

"Yes, he covered everything in mortifying detail, I'm fine.  Not that I would be _doing_ anything, but sometime a boy needs his first kiss without a helicopter dad."

"Youch.  Okay.  I'll be the cool uncle- _once._   Mention, um, brussels sprouts, that doesn't come up in conversation.   _One time,_ though, after that you're on your own."

Kurt grinned and leaned forward on one foot to hug his favorite fake-uncle.  "You're the best!"  Then he sped towards the showers, because Puck’s comments combined with some of Britt’s tales made Kurt wonder, and it never hurt to clean up nice.

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=ind0yt)

Those were some legs.  Puck watched Hummel approach the table, in tight jeans and a black Queen t-shirt under a suit-coat-looking thing.  He looked all kinds of edible out of the uniform, from his shiny black boots to the just-been-fucked hair.  Damn.

His voice shook Puck out of his reverie.  "So, how hungry are you?  Because I know a place."

" _Starving."_ Puck exhaled and jumped off the table.  "You driving?"

Hummel shook his head.  "It's not that long walking, and I'd like to stretch my legs after today."

_I would not mind watching you stretch those legs, Kurt Hummel.  That's just fine with me._

They walked a few blocks down the road to a hole-in-the-wall taco bar where all the staff called Kurt by name. 

Hummel explained, leaning across Puck to get to the pico de gallo.  "I always had schoolwork to do during the season, so I'd find a press-free restaurant with endless drink refills and air conditioning where I could stake out a table in the back, spread out.  I was home-schooled, so I graduated a year early."

Puck snorted, balancing his stack of little salsa cups in one hand so he could pull out a chair for Kurt, whose hands were full with their drinks.  "My spotter's my football coach, and I had to keep up my grades to keep her with me.  So I'm actually in AP classes this year, and being in Sprint actually helps with the whole public-school-balance, 'cause there aren't so many weekday races."

Kurt held up a hand as he finished chewing.  "Okay.  Sorry.  So, how does that work?  Brittany and Santana go to your school, too, right?"

He shrugged.  "Beiste drives us to races.  If we have to miss a full day, we get the assignments in advance, work on them before qualifying or whatever.  Because Beiste can get my sponsors dropped if we flunk classes, San and I actually bother to do the work, and we make sure Britt actually _understands_ the material.  English and anything with a lot of reading confuses her, because she had some crappy teachers in elementary, but she's a genius with math and physics.  Does all the-"  He wiggled his fingers. "- science stuff for my cars.  Also the stickers.  Always the stickers." 

Kurt was smiling at him, and my, what a smile.  "You guys are really good friends, aren't you?"

Puck couldn't help smiling back.  "Yeah, we really are."

 

 

 

**"Temperatures are running high** at Phoenix International Speedway, and we're not just talking about the heat.  Although- Mike, how're the bacon and eggs coming along?"

"Eggs are doing great, cooking on foil, right on the track.  It _is_ unseasonably hot here in Phoenix, and tempers are flaring high."

"There was a shouting match between Kyle and Kurt Busch before the race, though our cameras couldn't see what was going on there.  And here, on lap 82, Dave Karofsky bumps into Hummel, who's driving Junior's 88 for the second week in a row.  Hummel slams into the wall, somehow gets control back without spinning, and tries to make up the eight spots he lost.  He ran most of the race in the top five, but finished ninth.  We're going to try and catch up to both of them, because there is no _way_ that bump was accidental.”

"Is there some kind of grudge I hadn't heard about?"

"Who knows!  Coming up next, highlights of the race."

 

 

 

Kurt strode down the hall, on his way to meet Tean Puckerman for karaoke and slushees.  Out of nowhere, he was slammed into the wall, reminiscent of the wall-check not two hours before.  Kurt pushed off the wall and followed.  "What the _hell_ is your problem, Karofsky?"

Karofsky turned around, scowling.  "Aren't those _girls’_ boots, Hummel?"

"Fashion has no gender, and you're avoiding the question."

"Okay, fine!  I have a problem with you winning a race, when it's not your hard work or money getting poured into the car, when you haven't been losing like the rest of us rookies.  You didn't deserve that win, Hummel."

Kurt stepped right up to him, careful to keep his voice calm.  "First off, I _built_ that car, with my very own hands.  I've been working my ass off in NASCAR since primary school, when you were still playing Pokemon and twiddling your thumbs.  Secondly, if your issue is really me winning a race you didn't even _qualify_ for, then you can't cancel that out by cheating or beating me up like some kind of - of Neanderthal!  You didn't even _try_ for a fair race, which means you think that you can't win!  You're scared!  You're just a scared little boy who can't handle how extraordinarily ordinary you are, and you-"  lips on his, hands on his face, kissing him breathless, and he couldn't rant any more, because Karofsky was running away, down the hall, out the door.

 

 

Puck rounded the corner and spotted Kurt, leaning against the door frame, lips kiss-bruised and looking shell-shocked.

“You okay?” he called, and Kurt nodded, so Puck ran past him, toward the retreating back of Karofsky.

“Yo!” he bellowed.

Karofsky stopped, turned.  “Fuck off, Puckerman,” he said, voice weary, and kept walking away, slowly now.

Puck caught up with him and gestured at the stacks of tires from the Goodyear promo thing.  “You’re either going to sit your ass down and listen to me, or you’re gonna have a little chat with Junior.  It may be the Hendrick’s team, but you know Hummel’s protected turf.  Even the noobs know that.”

Karofsky glared, but perched awkwardly on the stack.  Puck leaned against another, facing him.  “Here’s what’s going down.  You apologize to Kurt- for the wall-slam _and_ the kiss-”

Karofsky jumped up and growled.  “I don’t know what he told you-”

Puck crossed his arms and glared until the taller man sat back down.  “No, dumbass, I _inferred._  Something higher life-forms learn to do.  He looks freaked, not punched, I know what fresh kissed lips look like, and also, there’s a smeaar of grease on his cheek that matches the one on your right hand.”  

That made Karofsky look down at his hand, and Puck smirked before continuing.  “You’ve been harrassing Hummel for winning - what, because you’re a wimp who’s scared to admit that he’s gay?  Grow up, Karofsky.”

“I don’t _know_ that, okay?  Geez.”  He ducked his head, blushing, and-

“Holy crap, are you a _virgin,_ Karofsky? That why Hummel pisses you off?  ‘Cause _you_ want in his _pants_?”

Oh, Puck was awesome, and totally right, because Karofsky was blushing redder.  “I’m from a small town and, home schooled, so I haven’t, you know, had a lot of opportunities.”

Puck looked at him appraisingly.  “So basically, you hate yourself for liking dudes when you’ve never even kissed one.”

Karofsky snorted.  “Pretty much, yeah.”

Oh, he was such an idiot for even considering this, but he had much better dirt over Karofsky than this, and it might kill two birds, one stone.  He raised an eyebrow and tried to keep a poker face.  “You want to?”

Karofsky’s head shot up.

Puck continued.  “Look, you know, I know, Hummel knows.  You’ve pulled Kurt’s pigtails too much to have a chance at getting into that bedazzled jumpsuit and he wouldn’t want to be your test run, either.  But me?  I’m equal-opportunity, I won’t blab as long as you don’t blab about me, and I’m not gonna take it personally if we make out and you go, _nope, guess chicks really do it for me, after all_.  Plus, it’ll get your head figured out so you stop harassing the kid.”

Karofsky laughed.  “He’s the same age as you, and I’ll stop anyway, sheesh.”  His expression wavered between bravado and a vulnerable sort of hope.  “You’d - you’d do that?”  He cleared his throat.

“Free action without some chick nagging me - dude, what could go wrong?  At least you can't get pregnant.”

They both laughed, and then stopped.  Karofsky’s eyes were darting at the ground, the sky, anywhere but Puck’s face, and he looked scared again.  

Puck rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the stack to grab Karofsky’s face and plant one on him.  He kept it gentle and pretty, well, chaste, ‘cause there was no point in scaring him off.  

He stepped back and assessed the look on Karofsky’s face.  It looked surprised, but unlikely to punch him so that was good.  But, he figured, the Narnian wouldn’t want to _talk_ about it right now, so... time for a subject  change.  

“Okay!  You’re going to go make grovelling gestures towards Kurt so that neither Junior nor Daddy Hummel is inclined to murder you, and then you’re going to take care of whatever business you’ve got left- I have a feeling my crew chief is cursing me for disappearing right now- and then we’ll meet up later to get our mack on, if you’re still interested.”  

Karofsky nodded jerkily.  “We can grab some pizza first?  I don’t know about you, but I’m always starving after a race.  There’s a place down the street?”

Puck bobbed his head, mentally laughing at all the question marks.  “Good plan, Karofsky.”  He stuck out his hand to pull Karofsky to his feet.  “Catch you later,” he waved before sauntering off.  

_Now, to check on Kurt..._

Puck found Kurt back in the garages, Karofsky trailing behind him.  He caught Kurt’s eye and jerked his head towards the back door.  Kurt raised an eyebrow and glanced around- no one was paying attention- before setting down his wrench and striding over to them and Puck slipped out the door.

And then there was an awkward silence, Kurt standing with his arms crossed and eyebrows raised, and Karofsky staring at his shoes.  Well, if that’s what he wanted to pay attention to...

Puck stomped on one of those huge boots.  That got his attention.  Karofsky’s head shot up.  “Jerk, what was that for?”

“You were going to say something?”  

Karofsky kicked at the asphalt.  “Yeah.  Um.  Hummel, I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have taken my issues out on you on the track, and I shouldn’t have ambushed like you that.  So, yeah.  I’m sorry.”

Karofsky was looking at the ground, so only Puck saw Kurt’s wide eyes.  “And you’re, um, getting help with your... issues?”

“Yeah, um, Puckerman’s helping me out,” Karofsky muttered..  

“Well, good.”  Kurt took a deep breath.  “Because you apologized promptly, and are seeking to be less of a Neanderthal in the future, I forgive you.  What we’re going to do is go get seen eating dinner together, someplace public, because neither of us need the negative press of a feud, real or imagined.”

“Dave and I were going for pizza.  You want to join?”  Puck shrugged, because David was apparently incapable of speaking for himself right now.

Kurt sighed.  “I suppose I could be amenable to that solution in lieu of karaoke, so long as I’m not forced to watch any sporting events or engage in burping contests.”

Puck laughed, and he spotted a hint of a smile on Dave’s face.  “I think we can agree to that.  Meet back here in an hour?  I’ve got to go find Santana, if I want to keep my life.”

The other two nodded, and Puck said, “Awesome.  Later, dudes.”  He pulled out his vibrating phone.  “Cool your tits, Lopez!  I’m on my way,” he said in an attempt to stop the litany of curses.

He jogged across the garage as she railed against him in annoyance.  

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=n2ogib)

 

They went ahead and ordered three large pizzas, figuring that leftovers weren't a problem and they could always order more if one of them was still hungry, plus two pitchers of pop.  

It was a good thing they had food, because they all ate like the teenage dudes they were and it kept Puck from having to make conversation, as Karofsky was still playing at mute.  They didn't slow down until they only one pizza left, between the three of them.  Puck was telling a story about that one time he made out with a Broadway star (to the amusement of Karofsky and the undisguised jealousy of Hummel) when the first of the reporters showed up as predicted.

"Hey, boys, I'm Jay Meadows from RaceDay.  I have to admit, I'm a little surprised to see you all eating together, after that little wall-slam on lap 82."

Kurt sipped his Diet Coke and put on his best diplomat's smile.  "That?  Oh, David explained how he misjudged the amount of turn needed; he didn't intend to hit me and he's already apologized for it.  You know how inexperienced drivers sometimes lose control of their vehicles."  

Karofsky looked like he was about to interject- probably over the 'inexperienced' comment, but Puck nudged his foot and leaned over to whisper, "He's keeping you from getting fined, dude."

The Race Day guy looked amused.  "Aren't you less experienced in racing than Karofsky, though?  Than anyone else in the Sprint Cup, in fact?"

Kurt leaned back, smirking.  "While Puckerman here has been racing competitively since he was diapers-"

Puck flicked a chunk of crust at his head.  "I was five, and I was so out of diapers."

Kurt threw the crust back.  “Congratulations, I’m so proud.  _I_ learned to drive on Uncle Dale's Stock Car Graveyard dirt track- at eleven-  you have to admit that poor Karofsky, while in the Sprint Cup series longer than either of us, has a bit of a disadvantage.  He only did truck series for a year before starting in this series.  So, from the perspective of someone who hasn't done his research-"

At least the reporter looked a little ashamed at that.

"I have less experience, anyone who wasn't reporting on golf a month ago would know that I was raised by NASCAR, and it simply isn't fair to Karofsky to make the comparison.  I'm not saying I'm as good as sliced bread; I'm not, but I do know more about cars than many drivers."  He huffed.  "It was a mistake in handling, we're both over it.  Now do you have any real questions, or can I go back to this delicious pizza, now?"

The guy grumbled and wandered off, and Kurt rolled his eyes.  "I hate to bitch and run, but I promised my dad I'd meet him for ice cream at seven.  Which is in approximately ten minutes, so..."

He leaned down to hug them both, saying _sotto voce,_ "Group hugs prevent presumptuous paparazzi.  Noah, give my best to your team, and David, it was pleasant engaging in non-violent forms of communication with you.  We should definitely do this again."  He stood and strode away, pleased that he'd made another new friend, if in a slightly unconventional fashion.

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=ind0yt)

 

Puck looked around Dave's shoulder- yep, the door was shut- before tugging him further into the room by a belt loop, stepping backwards towards the bed.  "C'mon, dude,” he said.  "Relax, okay?  We don't have to do anything tonight, you don't want to.  We can catch some _Die Hard_ movie on Pay-Per-View or just sleep or whatever; my feelings won't be hurt."

The backs of his knees hit the mattress as Dave spoke.  "No, yeah, I _want_ to, I just- I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."  He scowled, but it didn't hide the red tint of his cheeks.

Puck sat down on the shitty little full-sized bed.  "No problem, dude.  It's gonna be hot either way, so just- sit down, okay?"

Dave joined him on the bed. 

 _Skittish animal mode, got it._   "Imma kiss you now, nothing scary, okay?"  Before Dave had a chance to jump up and run or something, Puck touched his lips to Dave’s, careful to keep his hands to himself, no matter how much he was tempted.  He paused long enough to make him feel it, but not so long that Dave would freak out.  Even so, when he pulled away, they were both breathing a little hard. 

"Good?" Puck asked softly.

Dave nodded.   "Yeah.  Do that again?"

Puck leaned in a little harder this time, figuring it was safe to run a hand through the ragged hair.  Seriously, Kurt would throw a bitch fit if he ever saw Karofsky without a baseball cap or helmet, the haircut was _that_ bad.  And that was coming from a dude with a mohawk. 

Now Karofsky was kissing back, kind of shy, like he didn't know what was allowed.  And Puck's back was hurting from being twisted up like that, so he figured, _two birds, one stone,_ and swung up to straddle Karofsky's lap on his knees without even breaking the kiss.  The dude made a little grunt of surprise but rolled with it, tentatively placing a hand on Puck's thigh, another on his lower back as he deepened the kiss. 

Puck broke off to catch his breath, but Karofsky just started working on that one spot on the underside of his jaw.  "Seriously, dude,” Puck gasped, grinding down onto Karofsky's boner.  "How- did you learn- to kiss like that?"

Karofsky's hand slipped- maybe not-so-accidentally- to Puck's ass.  He leaned back and grinned cockily, smile _finally_ reaching his eyes.  "I read a lot of books, dude.  Also, my best friend's _Cosmo._ "  He sang, " _I know what boys want_ ," not even trying for a straight face.

Puck snorted.  "You're ridiculous, dude."

Dave thumbed at Puck's nipple through his thin t-shirt and sucked at _that spot_ again.  "But it’s working, right?"

Puck rolled his eyes and pushed Karofsky over onto his back.  "Shut up, man, it's just beginner's luck." 

With a laugh, Dave rolled them over and attacked Puck's mouth in a kiss and _goodbye,_ Mr. Shy.  Puck's legs were _totally_ working without his, like, knowledge or consent or whatever, because they were wrapping up and around Dave's hips, trying to get _closerclosercloser._   His arms had joined the mutiny, and his mouth seemed to be saying, "This would be so much better without any clothes on."  Which, hey, Puck couldn't really disagree with that.

Karofsky apparently couldn't find any argument with it, either.  He pushed away, and Puck wanted to protest, _no, don't do that,_ but it was only far enough to pull his t-shirt up and over his head, kneeling between Puck's legs while he worked on his belt. 

There were hands _everywhere_ and they were touching, gasping, _rightthere,_ and Karofsky's hand fit around _both of them,_ holy shit, and then Puck was coming so hard he saw stars. 

Like, freaking _constellations._

Somehow, they ended up flopped back on the bed (nobody fell off!  That would've been _awk_ ward), catching their breath.  Puck rolled up on his side, head propped up on one hand.  " _Live Free, Die Hard,_ and then round two?"

Karofsky chuckled breathlessly.  "Puckerman, you're a freakin' genius."

 

(Round two ended up being in the shower because they were sticky in awkwardly painful places.  For round three, Puck ended up riding Karofsky, slower than he'd ever done before, with _X-Men_ playing in the background.  He'd never be able to look at Wolverine the same way again.)

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=n2ogib)

 

It was the middle-of-the-race lull: everyone had gas and tires, there wasn't a risk of wrecks, and Puck was bored.  Out of his gourd.  Santana hadn't even been talking his ear off, and it's not like he had to pay attention to a map or anything.  Just lots of left turns. 

He flipped a couple channels over on the radio.  "Hey, Hummel!"

Kurt laughed.  "You as bored as I am?"

"Yep.  And we can't even play the license plate game.  Somebody _crash,_ already.  I haven't seen anything but Allmendinger's bumper in twenty minutes."

"I've been stuck behind Denny for longer than that.  They're not budging, up here."

"Yeah, well, why don't you sing me something to keep me awake?"  Coming up the straightaway, Puck tried to get around, but he was blocked against the inside.  He bit back a curse.  No need to get fined. 

Kurt dropped his voice. 

_"Get your motor runnin',_

_head out on the highway_

_lookin' for adventure_

_in whatever comes my way..."_

Puck joined in on the chorus, at the top of his lungs.  " _Born to be wild!  Born!  To be wild!"_

They both started laughing, and Kurt 'whooped' suddenly.  "Got around!  Up to ninth, now.  How're you doing?"

"Thirteen."  Puck rolled his eyes.  "And going nowhere fast."

"Locked in?"

"Yep."

"Wanna annoy Karofsky?"

Puck laughed. "Oh, yes, please.  I'll sing the first line?"

"Got it."

Puck flipped channels, giving Kurt a minute to meet him before starting to sing.

_"I asked the girl what she wanted to be.  And she said,"_

_"Baby, can't you see?  I wanna be famous, a star of the screen_."  Kurt picked it up without even a pause, and then they both sang, " _But you can be something in between!  Baby, you can drive my car."_

Laughing his ass off, Karofsky added in, _"buh- duh- dum-duh da..."_

_"Yes, I'm gonna be a star!_

_"Duh da da da dum..."_

_"Baby, you can drive my car, 'cause baby, I love you!"_

_"Beep beep, beep beep, yeah!"_

Once they stopped laughing, Puck put on his Announcer voice.  "Sir, this is Puckerman-" "-and this is Hummel-"  "And you've just been song-bombed.  Have a nice raceday!"

"Puck, get back on your own channel before my crew chief kills me."

"You know you like it!"  He was still cackling as he turned the knob back to his proper station.  And just in time, because there was a caution, not two laps later.  Yeah, this was racing.

 

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**Berkeley, California**

Tina went to Berkeley to "be the change," but her frustration in carrying out said dream was a recurring conversation for them.  "I just wish I could _do_ something about this- this bullying thing!   I mean, you're kind of famous now, you have _power_ to _do_ something, make a change, but what can I do?  I'm just in undergrad."  Tina held her phone against her shoulder as she juggled her books over to one arm so she could unlock her dorm.  Her long-time boyfriend laughed.

"What could I do, Tina?  I'm just a dancer.  And sometimes choreographer.  Make a PSA?  Like, a you're-awesome-like-you-are one? _Beautiful_ is, well, beautiful, but...I'd need singers.  Preferably famous ones, and not just ones famous for singing.  Broader base appeal.  Make t-shirts for costumes, maybe?  With, like, things we accept about ourselves?" 

Tina dropped her books on the bed and flipped open her laptop.  "See, there's that brilliant man I love.  If we could get, oh, that guy from high school Glee club, didn't he get onto USC's football team?"  She typed one-handed into the search engine.

Mike hummed.  "Oh, you mean Finn?  I always felt sorry for the guy.  Never had a girlfriend.  Great leadership skills, though, and he _was_ a good singer.  Better football player, though.  He practiced as often as I practiced dancing.  I taught him to dance after he found out NFL players use ballet for their agility, and he was pretty good."

"Interesting."  Tina scrolled through.  "Okay, sticking in our age range, last year's American idol actually grew up two towns away from us, isn't that weird?  And from her same high school was Quinn Fabray, that Miss Teen Ohio who got knocked up by the NASCAR driver, don't you remember?"

Mike laughed.  "Oh, yeah, that was pretty hilarious.  Miss Abstinence herself.  Is that important?"

Tina nodded to herself.  "Uh-huh.  Both of them sing.  And NASCAR's moved on to the big leagues by now."  She opened up a blank email, copying in official email addresses. 

_Hello,_

_You don't know me, except my six seconds of fame in the kiss-and-cry during my boyfriend's So You Think You Can Dance win.  But we're all about the same age, and I think you might be interested in a project we have.  We're making a music video..._

Mercedes responded first, and within three minutes of conversation, they opted for Lady Gaga, instead.  _Hair_ was suggested and rejected- more of a rebellious teenager feel than what they were aiming for.  Same with _Bad Kids_.  But _Born This Way..._ now _that_ was perfect.  Now if only they could find a girl to do those opening lines- both of them were too high of sopranos too pull it off with the right kind of tone.

And then, their solution came in the form of a call from Noah Puckerman, notorious playboy and stockcar driver. 

"Okay, Chang, awesome idea.  But my crew chief-she's a lesbian in a straight-dude dominated field, fits your 'be true to yourself even if the haters hate' theme- and her girlfriend want in.  And if you're looking for NASCAR drivers who can sing, you aren't getting me without Kurt, because he sings like a freakin' angel, does the National Anthem and all that.  And I don't think there's ever been a single openly gay NASCAR driver before him, not at our level, so he _really_ fits with your theme.  The you-can-do-anything part."

Tina waited for him to run out of breath.  "One, it's Cohen-Chang. Two, the more the merrier, so long as they can sing.  Three, what's his range?"

"How am I supposed to know?  He does the girl parts of Broadway songs, like that one about flying with the green chick, but can do the first lines in _Give Up The Funk_ and the Madonna part of _Four Minutes_ , so he can go pretty low, too.  Santana pretty much sticks to the Adele and Amy Winehouse and Britt does a mean Ke$ha.  I do a lot of Neil Diamond, some OneRepublic."

Tina snickered to herself.  "That's actually very helpful.  I'll work out the arrangements and send them to you, and then we can find some time to rehearse and record.  Is there some race out in California?"

"Uh, yeah, Fontana's on March twenty-fifth, and we'll all be around, probably from Wednesday on.  Practice and qualifying, and I think Kurt's working the pit at the Nationwide on Saturday, so earlier in the week is better."

"Great.  I'll send you time-and-place."

She'd barely hung up when her inbox dinged.  _From: Artie Abrams.  Subject: Anti-Bullying Music Video_

"How did Artie Abrams get my email address?"  She wondered out loud.  The young CEO made TIME last year- his inventions in robotics were revolutionizing medicine, even if he hadn't been able to fix his own paralysis, yet.  He was one of the smartest people in the world. 

_Miss Cohen-Chang,_

_I met Mercedes Jones at a charity banquet last night, and she mentioned your PSA project.  I do a little video production in my spare time, so I'd be happy to help with any of the filming, editing, or production your video needs.  I also have connections that can get some prime commercial spots for free..._

 

"Here are your parts.  We kept it simple because we want the focus to be on the message, not the frills.   Now, on these shirts- "  She gestured at the pile. "- you're going to print something about yourself that you've been bullied for, or that you were ashamed of and learned to embrace, or maybe something you're still working on.  Now, before Mike gets us started on the choreography, any questions?"

Berry's hand shot up.  "Why don't I have a solo?  I am, after all, the best singer in the room, and the message will be so much more powerful with an immensely talented singer, such as myself.  If you want to be effective-"

Tina cut her off with an eyeroll.  "If I wanted to be effective, you wouldn't be here at all, Miss Berry."  She crossed her arms.  "We want kids to know that they're special and can do anything they want, even if they're poor, or bullied, or outcasts, or lonely, or depressed.  The media says people are special if they, like you, have privilege afforded by them, from special schools and voice coaches from birth and knowing all the right people.  The rest of us- we worked _hard_ for what we have.  Mercedes paid for every one of her voice lessons with hours waitressing.  Kurt was in the pit crew for years before he sat in the driver's seat.  Puckerman's got such a tiny sponsorship, it might as well be non-existent, because he fought tooth and nail just to get in the race.  Team Brittana over there-"  Santana whooped.  "They are a female, queer minority in a _hugely_ good-old-boy job.  Finn's mom was a single parent, working long shifts as a nurse so they could afford _food,_ much less designer clothes and Beemers.  Kids in America- they don't look like you, they don't have the clothes or phone or job or car or _privilege_ that you do.  Kids in America, the people this video is for?  They look like us.  And they need to hear, from _people like them,_ that they can make it.  So sit down, shut up, and learn some humility." 

She let Berry make fish faces for three seconds before clapping her hands and turning with a grin.  "All right, from the top!  Kurt, you got this?"

He unfolded from the folding chair, strutting towards the front of the room.  At her nod, Artie started the music and Tina watched the NASCAR driver stick out a hip as he sang the opening lines.  "It doesn't matter if you love him, or capital H-I-M.  Just put your paws up, 'cause you were born this way, baby."

 

(She'd known that Finn attended high school with her and Mike, that Quinn Fabray had Puckerman's baby several years ago, and that Brittana worked with him.  She _hadn’t_ know that Puckerman was clearly interested in an oblivious Hummel, or that Jones and Fabray had been cheerleaders together at Carmel.  If so, she probably would've made them sit in opposite corners during practice because they _never stopped talking._   To her surprise, though, Quinn and Noah (or Puck, as he introduced himself), seemed to get along just fine, even though he'd almost cost her the title.)

 

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Since there were four of them from NASCAR, the commercial premiered during the Fontana race.  He didn't see it then, but he caught its reprise during a re-run of "The Rachel Berry Show" at eleven that night.  He thought it turned out well.  The next morning, Dad gave him a big hug ("Good job kid, I'm so proud of you, why aren't you saying anything?" "I- can't- breathe"), but he had a message from Mr. Hendricks.  The oh-shit kind of Come To My Office First Thing. 

He started talking before Kurt was halfway through the door.  "So. Publicity without permisison.  Some fans won't like getting slapped in the face with this kind of thing, especially during NASCAR."

Kurt crossed his arms.  "Because my t-shirt said anything _new?"_  

"Well, no, that's common knowledge, and if anyone gives you grief, you send them to me, okay?  But as your car owner- you acknowledge that you might lose some fans."

"I might.  But..." He dropped a stack of papers, easily three inches thick, on the desk.  "These are the emails I've gotten in the last 24 hours.  Three of them were negative; I posted them on the bulletin board so Dad'd know about them and Puckerman could mock them.  The rest, well, see for yourself."

Kurt looked stubborn and nervous simultaneously, which wasn't that uncommon to see on his face.  Hendricks stared him down for a few more seconds before grabbing the first paper off the stack. 

 _"Mr. Hummel,"_ He read, _"I've never watched NASCAR before, even though I love driving fast myself, because I thought our kind of people weren't accepted by the sport.  But I'm coming to the race this weekend, since it's in my neck of the woods, and I'm cheering for you to win.  Cheers,"_

He picked up another.  _"Dear Kurt, you are so, so brave, and I want to be just like you when i grow up.  I always watch the race with my family (we're Junior fans) and I think the uniforms are ugly, too.  Bryce Peters, age seven.”_   Another. _“Hi, Kurt!  I'm a thirteen year old lesbian who's been racing since I could walk, and Dad (who's also my crew chief) always said that I had to stay in the closet to stay in the race.  But now he says I can take a girl to the eighth grade winter formal.”_   Yet another.  _“Dear Kurt, my friends and I like sports but don't like the homophobia and inherent sexism in professional athletics.  But we've realized with your PSA that NASCAR is the only sport where queers and girls play on the same field, so we've decided to get tickets for every race this summer.  And possibly an "Idiot's Guide To...", because we have no idea how this sport works.  Any suggestions?”_   He laughed and picked up a fifth paper.  _“Dear Mr. Hummel, I'm the head of marketing here at Burt's Bees, and we saw you using our lip balm after the race.  Would you be interested in a sponsorship?”_   He raised an eyebrow, running through the rest. _“My name is Cheeks, you might have heard of me, how'd you like to be on my web show?...  Kurt, darling, I love what you've done with my song, and my people say your wholesome public image would be great for me, so I'd love to meet up sometime, chat about a duet for my next album, maybe some kind of Gaga bling for that car of yours... Mr. Hummel, I'm with Out Magazine, and we want you on April's cover..._ " 

Mr. Hendricks set the stack down.  "I stand corrected.  Take a seat, sort between appearances, sponsorships, promotion deals, simple fan mail, and anything else, while I get someone from PR in here.  Get your calendar out, because if we accept all those offers, you'll be booked solid for the next _month._    Good work.  And at least with you, I don't have to worry about pregnancy scares or getting fined for swearing at the cameramen.  And Hummel?"

"Yes, boss?"  Kurt worried his lower lip.

"Keep this up, good racing and good PR, and you might find yourself doing a full season next year."

Kurt grinned in relief.  "Yes, sir!"

 

 

Kurt smiled at the kid, whose hair was escaping the gel in the humidity.  "What can I help you with?"

He pulled out a leather autograph book.  "I'm really only here because my brother's an extra in the GoDaddy commercial they're shooting today, but I'm glad I got to meet you."  He said nervously. 

Kurt pucked up a promo pen.  "Who can I sign it to?" he asked, smirking at Katy Perry's signature in sparkly teal on the opposite page.

"Um, Blaine,” he said, biting his lip. 

"Great to meet you, Blaine."  _Best of luck, Kurt Hummel,_ he signed.

"Kurt!  Man, I didn't know you were racing today!"  Puck bounded up to the table, and Kurt absently handed Hair Gel his autograph book back before standing, anticipating one of Puck's Tigger-Glomps.

And right on schedule, Puck picked him up and spun him around. 

"Put me down, you Hulk!"

Puck grinned.  "You calling me a genius, superhero?  'Cause I’m flattered by your words, but I don't put out for just any charmer, you know."

He giggled, clearing a mountain of t-shirts off a chair so Puck could sit down.  "I'm not racing, but I _am_ on crew today.  I don't qualify for All-Star, but Junior does, so I'm taking up my old spot.  My replacement front tire changer has the flu, so I'm filling in."  He shrugged.   "It's been my job for a year, more if you count practices.  It's kind of nice to go back to it."

"Sweet.  Well, I'd cheer for you, but Santana would kill me."

"Yes, yes she would."

 

(Like Brittany predicted, Santana led Puckerman's pit crew to victory in the Pit Crew Challenge, though the 88's team came in a close second.  Unfortunately, without Junior himself to drive the car, they were ineligible for the actual All-Star race.  Predictions from before his injury had him winning, and the fans were very disappointed.)

 

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He cradled the phone against his ear, blocking out the parking lot noise.  "Hey, baby girl!"

"Hi, daddy!"  Not that he'd ever, ever admit it, but- hearing Beth's voice, it still brought tears to his eyes.  "Are you racin' cars today?"

"Not today, sweetheart.  What are you up to?"

"We made cookies an' Momma yelled at a _bunch_ of girls an' I colored in my _Cars_ book.  An' then I had to take a nap."  She made the nap sound like the worst form of torture.

"Aww, well, that's too bad.  Are you making dinner now?"

"Uh-huh.  Momma's makin' octopus hot dogs, an' rice, and Thomas is on so bye."  He heard the phone clatter onto the floor, and a moment later, Beth's adoptive mother came on.

"Well, Mohawk, you must have lost your shine, to be abandoned so carelessly in favor of a talking steam engine."

"Nice to hear from you, too, Sue.  How's the squad doing?"

She laughed.  "Still stunningly incompetent, especially for this late in the season.  That national championship is _mine,_ and if one more of these kids decides to come down with 'heat exhaustion' or 'sprained ankles' or any other made-up illness, so help me, I'll replace them all with life-model decoys.  I've got a friend at SHIELD, they can hook me up.  Except Q.  She can stay."

"Uh huh.  Best of luck with the, uh, incompetents.  I'll be cheering for you."

"You'd better, Puckerman."

With a smile, Puck ended the call and redirected his attention towards the television announcer.  “…and that puts Kurt Hummel qualifying in twenty-third, past drivers that he’s beat soundly the last few weeks.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that?  Did they modify the car this week?”

"Not that I've heard."

On the split screen, Puck could see Kurt climbing out of the car and shuffling over to take a swig from a water bottle as his crew swarmed him and the car both.  On the other side, Greg Biffle hopped into his car, talking with his crew chief.

“I don’t know,” the commentator said.  “He looks like death warmed over.  Guess it’s just an off day- we all have those, and I’m frankly surprised Hummel’s golden streak of top-five finishes lasted this long.  Now, Jimmy’s made some big modifications since last week-”

Puck clicked off the TV.  He wasn’t racing at Charlotte, ‘cause they had to rebuild the engine and they were short on cash, which _sucked_ , but watching the race in person instead of on _Speed_ was pretty much priceless, for planning strategy.  And he’d never admit it, but he kind of wanted to cheer his boys on.  But if Kurt was sick- there was no _way_ he’d have a good race, especially with the disadvantage of a mid-pack starting position.  Puck flopped back on the motel bed, then snorted.  _Move, Puckerman._   He sat up and grabbed his wallet, hitting the lights on his way out the door. 

 

Mr. Hummel was sitting with Mr. Hendricks outside his RV, schematics spread out over a card table.  Hendrick looked suspiciously at Puck and flipped the top diagram over as he got close. 

Mr. Hummel said, “Can I help you with something, son?”

Puck hefted a grocery bag.  “Heard Kurt was sick; thought I’d make him soup.”

Burt shrugged.  “he’s probably asleep, but you can head on in.”

As the screen door clicked shut behind him, Puck heard Hendricks muttering something about _courtship_ _rituals_.  He snorted and shook his head.  Nah, this wasn’t, like, a romantic thing, this was just taking care of a friend! 

Right.  Okay.

He clicked on the light over the tiny stove, trying to pull out a pot without clanging around too much.  Kurt was, in fact, sound asleep, curled up on the fold-out, a mountain of tissues on the floor next to him.  In fact, he slept straight through Puck's cooking one of the few recipes he knew (latkes, kreptlatch, hamentaschen, chicken soup, and Things From Boxes.  Mr. Pierce cooked most of the meals at their house, but Noah still used Nana's recipes on high holy days.  For Hannah.   And, okay, he liked the traditions, too. So he basically only knew how to cook Jewish stuff).

When it was done, he turned the stove off and covered the pot, scrawling a note.  He stepped over to Kurt, flipping the blanket back over his shoulders.  With a glance at the door, he pressed a kiss to Kurt's fevered forehead and made haste for the door.  Nodding to the old dudes, he pulled out his phone as he walked back across the parking lot.  "Hey, dude.  Yeah, we had plans, but he's got the flu.  So, you wanna hook up?  Let's just drive, 'till we find a place to stop.  See you in a few."

 

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The next week's race had gone much better, and though he'd barely made the top ten, Kurt was satisfied.  He pushed open the door to Karofsky’s trailer with his shoulder and promptly dropped the plate of muffins on the ground as time froze.

Okay, no, it didn’t freeze, because he could still hear the parties going on outside and the people inthe trailer weren’t frozen, no, they were in _coitus_ and he was definitely doing the _interruptus-_ ing, and they were both staring at him. 

“Oh, my Lord.  Sweet Dolce and Gabana.” He knelt to the ground and picked the muffins off the thankfully-clean floor.

After a moment of silence, Puck snorted.  “Well, this is awkward.”  There was a sound like a, a, squelch, and then the rustling of fabric, as Kurt kept his eyes on the ground, rearranging the muffins on the stupid broken styrofoam plate.  “Dude, you can look now.  We’re dressed, more or less.”

Kurt glanced up to see his two friends sitting on the tiny bunk (and he’d thought his RV was small) in boxers.  Puck was passing Dave a t-shirt- they both had pretty huge hickies, like, all _over_ \- and looking at Kurt appraisingly as he stood up and set the plate down.  “You okay, Kurt?"

Kurt laughed, leaning against the counter.  “Oh, I’m fine.  I’m possibly a little disgruntled that I’m the one who gets flack for being ‘that gay NASCAR driver’ yet the self-described Playboy Prince of the Sprint Cup and Mr. Tumnus himself are having more gay sex than I am, but I’ll get over it."  And then the need for info surpassed the bitterness, and he gushed,  "Oh, my god, how long has this been going on?  You have to tell me _everything._   ”

Noah chuckled.  "Hey, I've only slept with one person in the last six months."

Now Dave was rolling his eyes and laughing.  "Yeah, 'cause we do it, like, _all the time._   You'd need Cialis or some shit to have sex with anyone else."

Noah looked thoughtful.  "Hmm.  Yep, that'd probably be right.  What was that record after California: eight times?"

Kurt felt his face get hot.  " _Really?_   _Eight_ times?  In _one day?_   I didn't know that was possible!" 

Puck gave him one of those _looks,_ up and down, like he was really tempted to tear his clothes off _rightthatverymoment._   Kurt didn't think he could blush any redder.  "You interested, babe?  'Cause anything's possible with the Puckasaurus."

Kurt gasped.  "Noah Elijah Puckerman!  Is monogamy beyond your capacity?  Your boyfriend is sitting _right there,_  and you're hitting on _me?_   Are you _insane?"_  

Dave spoke up, _finally_.  "Not his boyfriend, dude.  Just, what's the thing, friends with benefits?  Great benefits, sure, but if you're interested, I won't stand in your way."

Kurt gaped.  "Are you kidding?  I thought I was imagining it, but you guys are _totally_ more than friends.  Anyone could see it.  Maybe you're in denial, but this is more than mere friendship, and you know it."

Dave looked at him intently.  “Kurt, Puckerman _likes_ me and all, and the sex is hot, sure.  But that doesn't mean he doesn't think you're hot.  And I'm cool with that, if it makes you happy.”

Puck gave Dave a weird look.  It was half 'are you kidding' and half 'you want to play that way?' “Yeah, and hooking up with me doesn't make Karofsky here any less in love with you.”

Whoops, it was time for Kurt's jaw to drop again.  “What- what was that?”

Dave punched Puck in the shoulder, his face scarlet.  “Dude, you weren't supposed to tell him that!"

"Yeah, well, you were about to give up your chance, dude!"

"Are- are you _serious?_   You love me."  He directed at Dave.  It wasn't a question.

Dave nodded, not looking at Kurt. 

Kurt turned slightly towards Puck, who looked smug.  "And you- you care about me, too?"

Puck quirked an eyebrow.  "Yep.  Granted, it's not epic, West Side Story yearning like Karofsky's got goin' on, but I care about you a lot."

 _Noah Puckerman just made a musical theater reference.  Without prompting.  I am_ definitely _hallucinating._

"Let me get this straight."  Kurt pointedly ignored David's snort.  "You both like me, in the romantic sense of the word."

" _Yes,”_ they chorused. 

Kurt rubbed his forehead with one hand.  "And neither of you thought to _tell_ me about this?"

The other two exchanged a Look. 

David sounded incredulous.  "You're way out of our league, Fancy."

Puck nodded.  "I'm a stud, Hummel, but getting turned down flat still hurts the ego.  Better not to risk it, right?"

Dave joined the nodding club.  "Totally."

Kurt huffed.  "Okay, both of you, stop bobbing your heads like that; you look like those little dashboard dolls."  They stopped, thankfully.  It was getting a little creepy.  "Secondly, last time _I_ checked.  We were all in the Sprint Cup.  Same league!"  He made a twirling motion with his right hand, trying to gesture for a track and probably looking like jazz hands.

They did The Look again- the 'we're having an entire conversation with eyebrow gestures' look.  After a moment, Puck turned to him.  "You saying we've got a chance, Princess?"

"You _did,_ but now I have to deal with both of you at the same time, and I don't want to choose, because I like you _both_ and it's too confusing!"  He said it forcefully, conscious of the fact that there were probably people within earshot if he started shouting, so he made sure to just whisper _with emphasis._

They did another Look, and those were really starting to piss him off. 

Puck interjected before Kurt could get up to full steam.  "Who says you have to choose?"

"For _that_ matter- wait, what?!"  For once, Karofsky looked just as confused as Kurt felt.  "What are you _talking_ about, Puckerman.  Kurt's not a yacht- we can't do split custody."

Puck rolled his eyes and leaned back on the bunk, legs spread.   Kurt tried not to look, but the tent in his boxers was _still there_ and _still obvious._   "I'm saying, we don't have to split into a couple and a third wheel, left out in the cold. We can be a tricycle!"

Karofsky still looked confused when Kurt gave Puck a piercing look.  "You implying what I think you're implying, Noah?  Because that's rather... revolutionary."

He raised his eyebrow.  "More revolutionary than an eighteen-year-old gay kid winning the Daytona 500?"

Dave shook his head.  "Wait, no, I'm still confused."

Kurt sighed.  "If Noah is suggesting what I think he's suggesting, it's.  Okay, so you do carpentry, right?" 

He nodded slowly.  "Yeah, well, I used to..?"

"What's the most stable number of legs for a chair or stool or table?"

"Three, because three points make up a plane, and anything else wobbles or falls ov- ohhhh."  His eyes got wide, and he turned to Noah.  "Really?"

"All three of us together, babe.  Think about it.  The three of us, we're _awesome_ together as friends, but it would be even better if we were closer.  Squeezed up together in his bed because it's the only one big enough, those road trips to the beach, but with more making out in the sand, Kurt and his long, long legs, wrapped around your shoulders,  you in him when he's in me, seeing Kurt raw and flustered and getting that hair all messed up just because he's so hot when he's mad."

Kurt, breathing hard, interjected.  "Really?  When I'm mad?   Like I was five minutes ago?"

Noah laughed freely.  "Why do you think I'm still hard, babe?"

"Oh.  Okay.  Wow."  He took one, two steps closer.  "David, do you agree that this idea is absolutely fabulous?"

Dave nodded, his chest heaving, too.

"Then why isn't anybody kissing me, yet?"  He took one more step forward before Noah reached up to tug on his wrist, pulling Kurt down to kneel on the thin mattress, straddling one of Puck's thighs as he kissed Kurt, firm and hot and grasping at the back of Kurt's shirt and biting at his lower lip.  Another hand was in the back pocket of Kurt's jeans before Puck was leaning back, hand still on Kurt's ass.  Kurt was confused for a second, but then Dave had those large hands cradling Kurt's face again and pressing another kiss to his lips,  but gentle and chaste and _loving_.  And then Kurt was getting a breath of oxygen and Puck and Dave were making out, _way_ dirtier than how either had kissed him, and Kurt _really_ wanted a piece of that, like, yesterday. 

Dave had a hand in Puck's mohawk and Puck had a thumb under the waistband of Dave's jeans, right at the hip, like that hip was his _property._ And... _wow,_ that thumb was rubbing circles in a half-concealed hickie, and Kurt would have really liked to have been there for its creation, 'cause, _damn._  But then Puck was tugging the hand _out_ of Kurt's back pocket for _some_ reason, and that was apparently the only thing keeping Kurt on the bed because his no sooner did Puck's left hand hit Dave's thigh than Kurt's knees slipped, one than the other as he grasped at thin air, tumbling backwards off the narrow bunk and falling on his ass, head slamming into the edge of the cabinet. 

"Ow, ow, damn."  He rubbed his head and blinked away tears.  He looked up at the twin looks of concern.  "I think that it might be best to relocate.  Like standing up.  Or really, anything but that _bed,_ oh my God."  He stood up and backed up, to the three-foot-long section of counter that trailer manufacturers pretended made a kitchen.  He rubbed his forehead.  "That's going to hurt tomorrow."

"Want me to kiss it better?"  Puck drawled.

"Do you really have to ask?"

Two steps forward, and he was actually kissing the bump, combing Kurt's hair down where it was ruffled.  And then Kurt was leaning back against the counter, using his hands, legs to pull him closer, closer, closer than he'd ever been to _anyone_.  He edged over to the tiny freezer.  _Hmmm, breakfast burrito from last season or frozen corn..._   He grabbed the corn and wrapped it in a relatively clean t-shirt from the floor, pressing it to his forehead as he leaned against the counter, closing his eyes.  _So close, and now... yeah.  This isn't going to work._  

And then, he heard Dave's voice.  "You need somebody to kiss that better?"

Kurt opened his eyes, looked up at the man who was suddenly by his side.  "I don't think-"

"That's okay.  You don't need to."  He pressed a gentle kiss to the welt on Kurt's head.  "That work?"

Kurt couldn't fight his smile.  "A little.  You want to try again?  Maybe it's a cumulative effect."

"Maybe a combo attack?" Puck asked from his other side, before kissing the same spot.  "Feel better?"

"Much."  Kurt felt sheltered by these two amazing men, these friends of his who wanted _more,_ no matter how scary that seemed, and they didn't seem to be running away from his clumsiness, or his little, tiny panic attack. 

Puck kissed his neck.  "Any other bumps or bruises that need taking care of?"

Kurt shook his head.  "N- no?" 

Dave laughed.  "I don't know, I think we'd better check under his shirt, just in case."

Puck looked back up at his face.  "You okay with that, Kurt?  Still with me?"

He blinked.  "Confused, but okay.  I'm not injured anywhere else; I don't understand..."

"Oh, Kurt."  Dave said with a smile, absently playing with the hem of Kurt's shirt.  "Can I?"

Kurt nodded jerkily, and Puck helped pull the t-shirt over his head.  Then he- he was kissing down Kurt's chest, pausing over his stomach to say, "I don't see any more injuries, but I think we'd better be thorough in our inspection.  What do you say, Davey?"

Kurt leaned back against the warm mass of Dave's chest, and felt him rumble in approval.  "I second that proposition.  I've got you, Kurt." 

He felt- secure, that was it, and kind of in awe, because as Puck pressed loose kisses to his abs Kurt was growing harder, and Puck was _kneeling down,_ and looking up for approval with a hand paused on the button of Kurt's jeans, and Kurt couldn't do anything but nod.  The sensations overwhelmed him, as Dave mouthed at the back of his neck and Puck slowly, gently pulled his jeans down, and then his briefs, and then Kurt's _cock_ was in his _mouth_ and he'd never felt anything like this in his entire _life._   He closed his eyes and let Dave hold up more of his weight, and there were hands, so large and warm and strong, holding onto his hips like they'd never let go.  And he could feel Dave, jeans rubbing against Kurt's ass and the hard line of his cock, right through the jeans, and that wasn't really fair, was it?

"Fuck- Dave- jeans, off.  Now!" he gasped, shamelessly rutting against the cock behind him. 

Puck pulled back, took a deep breath.  "Hummel's getting bossy, I like it!"  He stood up, leaving Kurt whimpering, but at least David was obeying and unzipping his Levis, behind Kurt, and then there wasn't anything between them.  Just Dave's cock rubbing against the small of his back, hot and hard as Puck shed his boxers and stepped closer to Kurt.

Kurt leaned back against Dave and wrapped a leg around Puck's hips, cocks soveryclose against each other.  Puck was kissing him, and kissing Dave over his shoulder, and Kurt was lost again in a wave of feeling and touching and hands and lips and then he was _flying._

__

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=n2ogib)

Kurt was sagging in his arms, covered in all of their come, and Dave was pretty sure there was no saving this t-shirt.  He hoisted Kurt back up, giving him a hand to the shower, and it was a shame there was barely room for one, in the trailer. 

Puck joined him, leaning against the wall and breathing hard, until it was his turn, and Kurt was tugging his jeans up, trying to fix his hair.  Dave rinsed off, too, before slipping into sweats as Kurt dialed his phone. 

"Yeah, Uncle Dale?  Yep, I'm fine.  I was just wondering, do you have any good recipes for brussels sprouts?  Okay, thanks."  He slipped the phone back into his pocket, and Dave handed Puck a clean shirt- one of Lauren's promo shirts he picked up, last time he’d seen her wrestle. 

Kurt smiled tentatively at them.  "The bed here- it's a little crowded, so-"

"You don't have to go!"  Puck interrupted. 

Kurt shrugged.  "There's not room for us, here.  No offense, Dave, but you live in a camper shell.  A tiny camper shell.  But my place- it's bigger, 'cause we've been living there most of the year since I was a kid, and my bed's probably a queen size.  So, um-"

Puck rapped his fingers on the counter.  "What about your dad?"

"Gone.  Junior owed me a favor, so- he's out for the night.  Probably won't wander back until noon."

Dave tossed Puck his flip-flops.  "Let's go, then.  I love you both, but I'm about to fall asleep, whether I'm near a bed or not.  So move." 

He yawned as Kurt giggled, pulling his sneakers on untied.  "Aye, aye, captain."

He hit the lights and locked the door, and then they were walking across the parking lot.  Dave was trying to look nonchalant, but he was probably failing miserably.  And then they were inside, door locked behind them, and they were stripping off jeans without one iota of finesse and falling into bed, too exhausted to do anything but curl up, Kurt spooned between him and Puck.  He yawned, and closed his eyes, and felt Kurt's soft skin under his hand as his thoughts faded away.

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=ind0yt)

 

Kurt woke to the smell of frying eggs and pancakes, and rolled over to see Puck smiling at him.  "Morning, sunshine."

He yawned.  "That David cooking for us, or an angel?"

"Pretty sure it's Dave, darlin'.  Also pretty sure your phone's vibrating on the floor right now."  

Kurt rolled out of bed with a groan, feeling around for his phone.  "Hello?"

"Hey, kiddo, hate to wake you, but ETA on your Dad is thirty minutes.   We're playing another game of Catan before he heads back over, but the game isn't _that_ long.  You doing okay?"

Kurt sighed, remembering the day before.  And this morning.  "I'm doing _fabulous._ Superb.  _Amazing._ "

Junior laughed.  "I get it, you're happy."

Puck sat down next to him on the floor.  "Tell him thanks, from me."

Junior obviously heard for himself, because he sounded amused.  "Is that _Puckerman_ I hear?  Kurt Hummel-"

Kurt flicked Puck's knee and exhaled sharply.  "Thanks for the interference, love you, gotta run."  And he ended the call.  "What were you _thinking?_ " 

Puck looked over to where Dave was standing, spatula frozen in mid-air.  "I was thinking, if someone's gotta be the fall guy, it'd better be me.  I can afford the publicity, it doesn't really hurt my rockstar image any, and they kind of expect it from me.  I mean, two of my pit crew are gay, and the jury's still out on Evans.  So even if the rumor mill spins, which it _will_ , this is NASCAR, they're worse than Jewish grandmas- I'll get the flak.  I can take it.  Dave's got _Air1_ as a sponsor, and he doesn't own his own car, or pay his own pit crew.  If he came out, he'd be out of the race.  People don't expect it from him, ergo, P.R. nightmare."

"It's still his decision, though."  Kurt said, hesitantly. 

Puck sighed.  "Yeah, but this way, I've bought him some time to decide.  He gave you one hell of a hickey last night, Kurt, someone's bound to notice.  Junior's a good guy- he's not gonna tell anyone, as long as he knows you're safe.  If you didn't tell him anything, or said it was a one-night-stand you picked up at a bar..."

"He'd worry, and probably tell your Dad."  Dave finished.  "How'd you think of all this?"

Puck laughed.  "I know P.R., man, and I know how rumors go.  What do you say, we get dressed, eat some pancakes, pretend we played Monopoly all night long?"

Kurt smiled ruefully and pushed himself up. "I'll set up the board."

 

 

"Hey."  The top bleacher creaked when Uncle Dale sat down next to Kurt.  He was nominally up here to get a bird's eye of the track, but Kurt didn't think anyone was actually fooled when he slipped out of the planning meeting, once Dale walked in with the all-clear from his doctor.  "You okay?"

Kurt stared out at the track.  "Yeah,"  He said, finally.  "I'm fine.  I knew I’d have to give your car back, eventually.  My Sprint Cup days were numbered from the start.  I'm just going to miss it."

"Nothing beats that rush, huh?"  They sat in silence, feeling the wind cutting right through layers despite the heat of the sun.  "I still want you on my crew."  Dale said, suddenly.

Kurt bumped his shoulder.  "Fine, fine, okay.  But you've got to promise me you'll win.  If I let you have your car back-"

"Let me?!"  

"-and then you go and lose, well, I might just never forgive you.  And your car would run away in the dead of night and follow me home."

"It would now, huh?"

"Just like in Cars."  Kurt said, poker face carefully in place.  And he learned poker from the Busch brothers- _no one_ beat his poker face.

Uncle Dale nudged his shoulder in return.  "Okay, then.  Wouldn't want my lady eighty-eight to pull a McQueen on me."  He stared out at the track for a minute before laughing.  "So what's this I hear about you and Puckerman?  Do I need to put the fear of God and/or Burt Hummel into him?  Because if I need to, I will." 

He said this very earnestly, and Kurt turned to him in a brief moment of panic, jaw dropped before he recovered enough to shove the older driver.  "Oh, my gosh, don't you dare!  If you say one thing to embarrass me, I swear, I'll post the video from New Year's on Youtube."

Dale poked him in the stomach, and Kurt crossed him arms defensively, booted foot coming up to try to dislodge his uncle, who was laughing.  "My rendition of _Achy Breaky Heart_ wasn’t _that_ bad."

Kurt stilled, smirking at the man who was still trying to tickle him.  "That's not the video I'm thinking of."

Uncle Dale froze.  "No- you- you _wouldn't_ , would you?"

Kurt quirked a little grin, raising an eyebrow and singing, " _Soy sexy y lo sabes."_

"No!  Okay, fine, I'll leave the Puckerman kid alone."  He crossed his arms and pouted.  "Spoilsport."

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=n2ogib)

 

He was running late to the pits when Santana cornered him, carrying a wrench.  Brittany blocked him against the retaining wall as Santana casually tossed the wrench in the air. 

"Hummel, I like you.  And we're friends.  But Puckerman's my family, so if you break his heart, I'll burn your McQueen.  Comprendes?"

Kurt resisted rolling his eyes, because Santana might actually carry out her threat.  "Yo comprendo.  Did David get the same threat?"

Brittany smiled casually.  "No, she threatened defenestration, which sounds like it hurts, even though I don't know what that means."

"Pushing out a window."

"Ouch."

"Ouch is right."  He turned back to Santana.  "Trust me, I care about Noah, too, and I wouldn't consciously do anything to hurt him.  _Ever._ " 

She smiled thinly.  "I'm glad we have an agreement."

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=lksh1)

 

Kurt pressed a kiss to Dave's shoulder and sleepily groped Puck's ass before scooting down to the bottom of the bed with a yawn.  He started the cheap hotel coffeemaker running before getting in the shower, using the handicap bar just to hold himself up.  Between the exhaustion from the race and exhaustion from, well, the rest of last night- it was a wonder he could walk at all.  He stretched and cracked his neck, starting to sing softly.  _It rings and I rise, wipe the sleep out of my eye.  The shavin' razor's cold, and it stings._  

Thirty minutes later, dressed and cradling an enormous mug, he shuffled into the garage.  Not that he expected anyone to be there, but they had to get the stuff packed up sometime, and it was always easier to get everything when no one else was there.  He opened the door to the garage, and quickly shut it.

This was not going as planned.  There were _people_ in there.

He took a deep breath, and opened the door again.  Junior was interviewing with RaceHub, and the garage was filled with cameras and lights and an actual _makeup artist,_ like they actually expected to get Uncle Dale in makeup. 

The interviewer spotted him and made eye contact, beckoning him into the picture.  Kurt groaned inwardly.  His hair was still wet, he was pretty sure these jeans were actually Puck's, and his Iron Man t-shirt had grease stains on it from yesterday.  He zipped up his hoodie to cover the worst of them and put on his stage smile. 

"Kurt!  We were actually going to find you, next.  How do you feel about yesterday's victory for Junior Nation?"  The guy had one of those _looks_ on, the kind that meant, _I think I have a story here and I'm smug about it._  

Well, he wasn't going to get any dirt from Kurt.  He smiled at the camera as Uncle Dale stepped up behind him, hand on his shoulder.  There were some times when the overprotective mother hen act was really helpful.  "The team worked really hard, and we're all ecstatic for Junior, and grateful to all the fans who believed in us.  His perseverance paid off, and we _finally_ got that win we've been waiting for."

The reporter gave him another sleazy smile.  "Do you resent Junior, or Hendricks Motorsports, at all for taking away your car right before a win?"

Kurt steeled his spine and his smile.  "Of course not!  It's not my car, anyway, I was just keeping the seat warm for Junior until his return."

"But your racing career is over, almost before it started, even though you gave Team Hendricks a good run."  This guy was really pushing his luck, and Junior's hand on his shoulder tightened momentarily.

"Who _ever_ said my racing days were over?  I'm not free to discuss details yet, but I've got a list of sponsors interested in next season, where I'll be racing Junior Motorsports' first Sprint Cup car, and I happily anticipate finishing out _this_ season where I started, on the pit crew."

Dad walked over, and Kurt tried not to show his relief too visibly.  "If you folks are done harassing my son, I'd be happy to show you yesterday's winning car.  If you'll just follow me?"

Finally, the camera crew turned away, eager to get some decent footage. 

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=n2ogib)

 

Later, Dad lured him into a false sense of security with a Costco cheesecake and three kinds of syrup, "Left over from yesterday's victory party.  Want to split it, son?"

Kurt laughed.  "Is that even a question?"

They set the box on a cooler, eating off of paper plates in the shade outside the trailer.  They'd gotten matching NASCAR camp chairs when Kurt was nine or ten, he couldn't really remember, but they seen the parking lot of every race in the country _and_ the Baja 500. 

Dad, the jerk, waited until his mouth was full to talk.  "So.  Puckerman.  And Karofsky.  They treating you okay?"

Kurt's head shot up, and he almost choked on his mouthful of food.  He swallowed as fast as he could, but Dad _kept talking_.  " 'Cause if they're not, I know ways to make their cars crash and make it look like an accident."

"Dad!  Oh- what- how did you even _know?"_  

Fork paused in mid-air, Dad looked him straight in the eye.  "Kiddo, I may be old and gray and not used to how guys date each other, but I'm not stupid.  Or blind.  You kids don't act like you're just friends, and we share a tiny trailer, bud.  I _notice_ when you don't sleep in your own bed, three or four nights a week.  You got together after Dover, right?"  He ate the bite of cheesecake, and Kurt sighed.  There was no arguing now. 

"Yeah."

Dad nodded.  "Thought so.  You acted different, all of a sudden.  Lighter.  Happier.  Figured, either had to be love or fashion, and since I didn't see you wearing any new shoes, I started lookin' a little closer.  Wasn't too hard to see where you were going, when you weren't here, and whoever's trailer you went in, the other guy followed right after. Now, I'm not going to ask how it works with all three of you-"

"Oh thank God."  Kurt exhaled.

"-but I do want to make sure that this- this thing of yours...it's _healthy,_ right?"

Kurt covered his eyes with his hand and mumbled out, "Yes, Dad, we _are_ using protection."

"Not what I was asking, squirt.  Is this- It's all, equal and stuff, and they respect you, right?  I just- I just want you to be happy."

Kurt set down his cheesecake and leaned over, hugging his dad.  And Dad squeezed him back. 

"I remembered what you told me, Daddy, and  they- they treat me like I'm worth it, like I'm worth _everything._ "

Dad patted him on the back, then coughed.  "Well, you know, just, well, remember those pamphlets, and let me know if I need to use my blowtorch, okay?"

Kurt wasn't crying.  And even if he was, Dad'd never feel it through the seven layers of flannel.  "Thanks, Dad."

Kurt settled back in his chair before he fell over, and they both did that tried-and-true Hummel Tear Disappearance Technique of the sleeve-wipe, throat clear, and deep breaths.

"So, let's talk about next season.  You planning on travelling with them?"

Kurt took a deep breath.  Dad did better with facts and frank talk then attempting to shelter his feelings, so..."We were thinking, Puck's been travelling with half his pit crew in his trailer, and frankly, the girls are sick of him.  And David travels alone, so we were thinking of moving into his at the start of next season, if we're all still racing." 

Dad nodded.  "Well, it sounds like a fine plan, but let's look over your budget for 2013, see if we can fill in some of those blanks."  He laughed.  "Oh, and thanks for winning me 50 bucks off your Uncle Dale.  He called Puckerman months ago, before it was even a thing, I think?"  At Kurt's nod, he continuted.  "But he was sure Karofsky was straight.  Danica had money on just Karofsky."

"You made _bets_ on my _love life?!"_   Oh, no, no amount of cheesecake made up for betrayal like this.

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=n2ogib)

 

They were at a tiny Italian restaurant a mile from the backside of Sonoma.  Maintaining a semi-secret relationship while all were minor celebrities was a tricky business, and they were getting a tour of adorable family-owned local eateries along the way. 

Kurt gestured with a breadstick.  "If you're trying to tell me you don't even like _The Sound of Music_ , you're a lying liar who lies, David Paul Karofsky."

"Now, that's not a _musical,_ it's a _family classic._   Adorable kids and witty lines and escaping from Nazis!  It's a wartime drama."

Puck laughed.  "Dude, that movie has more songs than spoken word.  There are _singing nuns;_ it's a musical."

"If music is in the title, I think it's the very definition of musical," said a wry female voice.

Kurt's face lit up.  "Impractical Heels, my very favorite NASCAR official!"  He stood and gave her one of those half-hugs.  "What are you doing here?"

The hot chick, worn flannel shirt and rugged jeans and Puck glanced down, very impractical heels, smiled and dragged up a chair to sit on it backwards.  "A little bluebird told me that this was where the Three Musketeers hung out after Sonoma.  I thought I'd catch up!"

Kurt took a sip of tea and raised an eyebrow.  "No, you didn't.  What do you want?"

She laughed.  "Never could fool you.  Okay, so those of us behind the scenes know about your little sing-alongs on channel 99.  It's not listed because we figured you were embarrased, but a few fans have caught on, a few blogs have mentioned that you three boys can _sing._ "  She stole a breadstick out of the basket and nibbled off the end.  "We want to bank on that.  Well, not make any money, but none of you made it to the championship.  Being popular and marketable doesn't always mean you're a points leader, right?  And none of you ran more than half a season.  So we figured, there are unsold tickets for the cup.  Lots of them.  But the fan forums- those same ones that say the cup isn't worth going to- think you boys are awesome."

"I'm glad random strangers on the internet appreciate my admittedly awesome self."  Puck said with a grin, "But what do you want us to do?"

"National anthem.  And a little meet-and-greet afterwards, of course.  Maybe hang in the commentor's booth during the boring parts and reprise some fan favorites, like _Baby, You Can Drive My Car_ and _Fun, Fun, Fun._ "

Puck saw Dave slouch back in the booth and cross his arms.  His guard was up, because their little safe space had an intruder.  Dave was a..little more sensitive, not that he'd ever admit it.  "What's in it for us?  We were planning on taking the day off."

Impractical Heels took a sip of Kurt's tea.  "Apart from boosting your personal brands?  This is marketing gold, boys.  _If_ you do this well, I can see a novelty album deal, maybe a holiday album, tracks on the soundtrack on the inevitable _Cars 3,_ and most importantly, extending your career.  More often you come up on Google, the better sponsorships you'll get, which means better cars, which means more wins.  All of that goes to _your_ bottom line.  Not so much NASCAR's.  For us, we're relying on an indirect boost to our public image- singing drivers instead of celebrities means we don't have to actually pay you, and it makes us look like one big family.  After the Busch brothers getting into that fight last week, we need all the positive press we can get."

The three of them exchanged an amused glance.  "We're in."  Kurt said.  "You can send along the details later, but now leave us to our chicken parmesana, mmmkay?"

The official laughed and stole one more breadstick before standing.  "I'll leave you to it, then."

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=ind0yt)

Lauren would never actually have _told_ him, but she watched every one of Dave's races.  And she DVR'd the Sprint Cup, because by this point she'd invested enough emotion to actually _care_ who won.  But this time, she just wanted to skip through all the opening stuff, because her boy wasn't racing, and therefore she didn't give a shit about any of the frills.  Pretty much, she'd skip through until she saw something crashing or blowing up, and enjoy the highlights with her popcorn.  She sat down to do just that.  Skip, skip, skip, blah, boring, predictions, talking heads, airplanes, singing, boring.  Wait.  Hold on. 

She skipped back to the singing bit, and nope, that wasn't just her imagination.  Dave and his boys were on the little stage, and they were singing the National Anthem in three part harmony.  Like, good singing, not the kind they dueted on when they were drunk and went to karaoke.  Karofsky started the first line, and they added in one by one.  They had the timing worked out really well, that, and they were standing close and could probably feel each other breath.  And damn, but that Hummel kid had a range on him. 

Once they finished, they cut back to the planes flying over head and then the commentator.

"Now that, ladies and gentlemen, those young men represent the true spirit of NASCAR."

Lauren promptly snorted her soda.  Over her laughter, she could pick out them talking about 'diverse backgrounds' and 'friendships that surpass racetrack rivalries', but, holy crap, that was hilarious.

She texted Karofsky.   _BTW, ur gay 3some represents the true spirit of NASCAR._

_STFU, L_

_Bite me, bitch_

Yep, that was her Karofsky.  But in the true spirit of friendship, she immediately went online, got a screen capture of them singing all wrapped up in each other, photoshopped the quote in.  And then posted it on Tumblr. 

TOTALLY DOING IT, Y/N? 

(She knew Dave would see it, eventually, but he'd never mention it, just like she never mentioned that sweet, complimentary, funny fanfic about her and one of her wrestling victories, posted anonymously on AO3 on her last birthday, or how the QuinnFabray tumblr actually had accurate information, half the time.   All three of them  were minor celebrities- they would never _admit_ to trolling each other's fandoms, but they did it anyway.  _Somebody_ had to keep Karofsky's fangirls in line.)

 

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=n2ogib)

 

**EPILOGUE**

Finn walked up the street, peering at mailboxes and his invitation in turn when he heard a familiar voice.  "Here for the ceremony?"

It was that blond girl- the one who'd been in some kind of beauty pageant and worn a Stanford sweatshirt at the PSA thing.  "Quinn, right?"  He asked.  She was in a light blue sundress, and her hair was up in some kind of fancy thing, showing the blue and purple streaks on the underside.  "I think you were pre-med, last time we met."

She smiled at him.  It was a pretty smile.  "Yes!  And you said we couldn't be friends until I left school."

"Well, you know, USC takes football rivalries pretty seriously."

She held out her hand.  "Quinn Fabray, UCSD for medical school, and I just won't mention where I did my undergrad, shall I?"

Finn shook her hand firmly.  "Finn Hudson, I play for the Chargers.  When we get back to San Diego, we should, you know, get coffee.  Catch up."

Quinn giggled, and extended her arm, letting Finn walk her up the driveway.  "I think I'd like that."

"So, why are you here?  Kurt 'n me, we got to be friends after the Born This Way thing, since we're both professional athletes that like singing, and he's cool, and then my mom started dating his dad, so...I'm, like, almost family, now."  He held the front door open for her.  It probably looked a little dorky, but he really hadn't done much actual _dating_ in college, and he kind of wanted to impress Quinn. 

Quinn, who was sighing.  "Oh, well, Dave's one of my best friends, and Puckerman...well, I kind of gave birth to his daughter.  It's complicated."

Finn looked at her sympathetically.  Best friend kinda marrying an ex _totally_ violated the bro code.  "That sucks."

She shook her head and smiled.  "Not really.  It's like- don't judge me, but it was a one-night stand, and my cheer coach adopted Beth, once she was born.  She knows that Noah's her daddy, but I'm just 'Auntie Q' and we're all happy like that.  Them getting together kind of makes my family gatherings simpler, in a way.  And...speak of the devil."

Puckerman somehow managed to make a tux and mohawk look _cool_ , instead of the _epic lame_ it would be if Finn tried something like that.  He was grinning at Quinn.  "Hey, I resemble that remark."

"I know," she drawled, and they both laughed.  "Noah, you probably remember Finn Hudson, from the music video thing.  Is Lauren in the kitchen, still?  I was supposed to be helping her with the food."

He sighed.  "She just kicked me out.  Slapped my hand, too, when I tried to steal an egg roll.  Like _I_ would spill food on this tux!"

Quinn snorted.  "More like, she wanted you to have fresh breath for the big kiss.  Well, kiss _es_ , in this case.  In any case, can you show Finn the backyard?  I'm going to make sure everything's under control in the kitchen."

Puckerman opened the screen door for him.  "We're pretty much just waiting on Mr. Hummel, at this point.  Dave's parents are here- and surprisingly, not freaked out."

There were probably thirty people in the backyard, more than he was expecting, including a tiny blonde girl in a very frilly dress and pigtails, holding a basket of flowers.

Puck followed his gaze.  "I take it you've heard about Beth?"

"Just now."  Finn said.  "She's adorable."

"Thanks.  We're not doing the whole bridesmaid, best man, thing, but none of us had the heart to tell her she couldn't be a flower girl.  We did manage to veto the pink, though.  I'm totally grateful for that."

"Who's officiating?  I mean, it's not like that dude from that one show- Brian, something?- managed to get threeway-marriages piggybacked with the gay rights battle, so it can't be legal, but there's got to be somebody to say the words, right?"  Finn had spent the entire drive here trying to figure that out, and decided it would be smarter to just ask. 

Puck laughed.  "Brian Kinney, we only wish, and how do you even _know_ that show?"

"My best friend is Kurt Hummel."  He deadpanned.  "It's been an educational few years."

"I can imagine!  Wow."  Puck gestured at a blonde girl with flowers in her hair, standing under a little archway of those white twinkly lights.  "Brittany's ordained.  Don't ask me what kind of church.  But she spent one winter auditing physics classes at M.I.T. and came back in the spring with a notebook of new car ideas and an ordination certificate."

Finn saw Mr. H. coming in through the side gate with his mom and waved.  Puck saw, and shrugged.  "I guess that's my cue."  With a wave, he sauntered back into the house, adjusting his jacket as he walked. 

 

 

Five minutes later, Quinn started playing _Goin' to the Chapel_ on the little electric keyboard, and Beth was skipping up towards Brittany, scattering blue petals on the grass.  She got to the front, shrugged, and dumped the rest of the basket in a heap before sitting down next to a tall, blonde lady in a tracksuit. 

The doors opened, and Kurt, Puck, and Dave walked out in matching tuxes, arms linked as they walked towards the front, grinning.  Quinn stopped playing as they stood in front of Brittany, holding hands. 

The officiator adjusted her flower wreath and cleared her throat.  "Now, we're here for a very important reason, and that's because these young men are in love.  Like, Princess Bride levels of sappy, in love.  Which is awesome.  Love is a many splendored thing.  Love... lifts us up where we belong.  All you need is love!"

Finn was _sure_ he heard Kurt mutter, "Oh, please don't start that again," under his breath, but Brittany kept talking.  "You might have heard, from your moms or dads or other parental units, that love never subtracts or divides- it only multiplies.  Well, we're witnessing a bond of three, which means that _their_ love increases _exponentially_.  And that love is why we're gathered here today.  Marriage is a very special thing, and these three _fine_ young men have decided to commit their lives to love, and to each other.  Does anybody object to their union?  Speak now, or forever hold your pee."  She said, each sentence very serious, and Finn could see Kurt's shoulders shaking in silent laughter. 

Brittany grinned.  "Well, that's good!  I hear there are some parental units here to give up their number one speed dial spots and have their kids be somebody else's problem as they bless this union.  Can you folks stand up?"

Finn saw them stand up- Mr. H, a tall couple he assumed were Karofsky's parents, and a lady with curly hair who he _vaguely_ remembered from her coaching one of the opposing teams in high school.  She had a handkerchief out, and was wiping her eyes. 

"Do you give your blessing?"

Their responses layered- "Yes."

"Yup."

"We do."

"Fantastic!  Okay, so, boys, it's time for vows."  As Brittany was unrolling a scroll- like, an actual scroll, which was _awesome-_ Finn saw Dale Earnhart Freaking Jr. stand up, slipping to the side, next to the Latina girl and someone he assumed was 'Lauren', because she was taking an apron off. 

"And you went with the traditional, which means- yay- there's less to say!  Okay, repeat after me.  I, and then your name,"

"I, Noah Elijah Puckerman,"

"I, Kurt Elizabeth Hummel,"

"I, David Paul Karofsky,"

"Take you both,"

"Take you both," they said in unison, and Finn grinned at the wording.

And then, phrase by phrase, they repeated the vows after Brittany.  "To be my husbands, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part."

Then, she looked over to the side.  "Can we get some rings up in here?  Santana?"

'Santana', Junior, and Lauren walked forward.  Santana handed Kurt a ring, and David held Puck's hand so that Kurt could slip it on his ring finger.  They repeated the process twice more, and then Brittany grinned.  "By the power vested in me by Stargate Command and the state of Ohio, I declare you all married.  Good luck.  You should probably kiss or something, now." 

They all three leaned in, and...okay, well, _that_ was how you could fit three noses in.  Finn had trouble just with two, so maybe gay guys were just extra talented or something. 

Santana leaned in to whisper something in Brittany's ear, and her eyes got wide.  "Wait!  Hold up."

Puck, chuckling, leaned his forehead against Karofsky's chest, and slipped his arm tighter around Kurt.  "I think it's too late for objections, Britt-Britt."

She rolled her eyes.  "It's not an _objection,_ dummy, _you're_ the Jew, you should know when you're forgetting something!"

Puck straightened up.  "Oh, no!  Do you have it?"

"Of course!  Okay, well, Santana remembered it."  She handed something fabric to Puck, who promptly threw it onto the patio and stomped his foot.His...mom?  Football coach? and the teenage girl sitting next to her shouted "Mazel tov!"  

Through Sprint Cups and tire changes, through sponsors and pit crews, through family drama and friends, through hard times and high times, they loved each other, as long as they lived.

And it _was_ a happily ever after.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank Tessisamess for the fantastic art, especially on short notice.
> 
> Thanks to celloist_amy for cheerleading, talking off ledges, kicking me off tumblr, etc, etc. 
> 
> And _extra_ hugs to nubianamy for getting me to sign up for this in the first place, cheerleading, an absolutely _amazing_ job of beta-reading, and dragging me through my first big bang. This is all her fault. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> *spoiler space*  
> In 2012, NASCAR changed the rules to ban drivers talking to each other on the radio. I'm choosing to ignore that. Also, if you know more about racing than I do, please forgive errors :)  
> Any actual people employed in auto racing, I mean no offense by replacing you with fictional characters, handwaving your existence, or taking your victories away. But after the year he's had, doesn't Kurt Hummel deserve a victory or three? 
> 
> **For people who care about pairings mentioned in passing:** mentioned-but-not-shown past Quinn/Puck, Mike/Tina, mentioned Burt/Carole near the end, flirtations towards Finn/Quinn in the epilogue.


End file.
